


Shift

by LokianaWinchester



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Angst, Domestic Bliss, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fox!Napoleon, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Torture, Insecurity, M/M, Mutual Pining, Napoleon just knows the X men really well lmao, Not a modern AU, Polar Bear!Illya, Self-Doubt, Serious Injuries, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Slow Burn, backstories, implied prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-06-28 00:41:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15696654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokianaWinchester/pseuds/LokianaWinchester
Summary: Prompt fill for mykaijusizefeels and napollya-inspiration on tumblr who suggested a Shapeshifter AU with fox!Napoleon and polar bear!Illya. This is the mission and the aftermath of doubts, fears, leaps of faith and eventual happiness.The smut, for those who would rather not read it, is only in the very last chapter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Like all my works, this is not betaed, thus all mistakes are my own. I hope you enjoy it!

It was like in the X-Men, Napoleon supposed, only less cool. In this world there were no superpowers, like the mutants had in that franchise, however much he wished there to be. There were no laser eyes and no telepathy. Napoleon was sitting in a comfortable armchair in his home. It was the only nice thing he had; not even his bed was comfortable. The CIA really had it out for him. How did they expect him to do work for them if he could not sleep?

Consequently, Napoleon found himself sitting up in said armchair staring into the darkened room and grinning, because he realised that it was probably for the best that telepaths did not exist; his activities had not always been legal and if there were telepaths, Napoleon’s situation with the CIA would be infinitely worse. Instead of in his armchair, he would be sitting behind bars.

His grin split even wider, when Napoleon thought about how there might not be Magnetoes or Professor Xs but there were bound to be Wolverines even in this universe.

No, the powers, if they could be called that, were not of that sort.

* * *

 

The first time Napoleon shifted, it happened with the help of a massive surge of adrenaline.

Barely fourteen, he was running down the street, the wallet in his hand, soft leather, coins clanging deliciously within it. He was not stealing because he needed it; he had a more or less caring family, a place to live. He was well off. Napoleon stole because he could. But this time he had been caught in the act and clever as he was, Napoleon knew that they had not gotten a good look at his face. And he was fast.

So Napoleon ran. Behind him the steps were coming closer, louder on the battered concrete under his shoes as he darted onto private property. He jumped over a hedge, sprinted over damp lawn, behind him steps, voices, then Napoleon heard only the blood rushing in his ears as he ran and climbed and jumped until there was no way to go. At the end of the narrow alley he was standing in, his way was blocked by a gigantic hedge; there was no way he could get over, through, or around it, but Napoleon kept running in the hope of finding a spot to hide in before his followers turned the last corner.

It was then that it happened. The only thing Napoleon really noticed was his eye level drastically sinking. His instinct was to break his fall, but to his surprise he just kept running.

Through the hedge he went, making his way between the thick trunks that held up the hedge before he came to a halt in the dirty space behind an unfamiliar garden shed.

Confused, Napoleon looked at his hands – paws. He blinked. Paws.

He jumped, frightened, red fur reflecting back at him in the glimpse he caught  of himself in the window of the shed. Napoleon turned around, or rather he walked in circles. His tail was bushy, a light spot at the end.

_A fox._

“Fuck,” Napoleon said, but instead of his scratchy teenaged voice, an almost screeching sound escaped his throat. Napoleon’s instincts had him jumping again. Oh god. He was one of them.

Despaired, Napoleon curled up into himself. He had nowhere to go like this. He was a fox.

Napoleon Solo was a fox. Napoleon Solo was a Shifter.

On the other side of the hedge, Napoleon heard voices and steps leave, the wallet had surely fallen to the ground when he shifted, everybody was content again. Except for Napoleon. He was lying on the sparse lawn behind a shabby garden shed looking like a fox.

Napoleon knew that basics; everybody did. Adrenaline played a big part in shifting, especially during the beginning. Panicking would not do him any good; he needed to get his pulse down and think of something else.

The smart young boy in the back of Napoleon’s mind knew he would figure it out once he was back to his human form, he would study his condition, he would learn to control and conceal it. But the thief inside him, the boy that was relying on instincts was freaking out because his entire existence was turned upside down.

Napoleon swore again but only a whimper was audible.

* * *

 

It had taken him hours to calm down. Napoleon did not think back to his first Shift fondly. Rarely had he ever felt that helpless.

This was what mutants looked like here. No teleportation or weather control.

At least there were claws. Napoleon huffed out a laugh at his own mental joke. It had taken him a long time to get so comfortable with himself that he could joke about it.

For a long time he had been wary of himself, tense every time somebody mentioned Shifters. He had learned, but even with his intelligence it had not been easy, a lot of times he was awake whole nights because he went outside, shifting easily into his spry fox-self, but stuck there for hours unable to shift back. Countless times he had nearly been caught and only the size of his other form had allowed him to hide.

No, Napoleon had really not had it easy, but when he finally learned to control his mutation, he also learned to appreciate it as a gift.

Countless new doors opened themselves to him both metaphorically and literally, and just like that, stealing became easy, so easy. He made a living off it, he was good at it.

Getting into places had never been easier and with a series of clever systems he transported his prizes out of windows and doors without anybody noticing before he slipped back out whatever hole he had come in through.

It was so simple, but Napoleon had made the one mistakes even the best criminals should never make; he had gotten too confident in his abilities and in this had grown not only reckless buy also careless.

Napoleon had only heard the sirens when it was too late and so the local police had taken a screaming and fighting fox to the CIA because they had no means to deal with him whereas the Agency had a whole department just for cases like Napoleon.

And just like that, with one job gone sideways, Napoleon’s cover of nearly fifteen years was blown. His ego had not yet recovered, even though his capture lay almost five years back now. Napoleon doubted that it ever would. He should have been better.

However, once in the claws of the CIA, there was no escaping them. Napoleon had learned that the hard way. He had tried to escape time and time again until they had left him a broken fox in a stinking cell in a facility somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Broken in body in spirit, it had taken Napoleon months to recover to working standards but as much spite as there was left in him and as much as he despised himself for it, Napoleon had learned his lesson. There truly was no escaping.

So he stayed, even though he hated it.

Napoleon sighed. The grin had long been wiped from his expression, a deep yawn brought him back into the present.

With ease, long practiced, Napoleon shifted and made his way to bed. Sleeping like this, curled up into his own fur, the bed was comfortable where it would give him back aches for days in his human form.

Foxes dreamt of rabbits, Napoleon had realised long ago.


	2. Chapter 2

Illya was sitting in the cold. Snow was falling all around him in what other people might call a romantic atmosphere. For Illya it was not romantic, there was nothing special about the weather; whoever had coined light snow-fall as romantic, had never been to Russia. Granted, the snow did not always fall gently, most of the time it did fall in tick, smothering flakes, that quickly covered anything that did not move to seek shelter fast enough.

However, Illya was dead set on his stance. The snow was less than special. But as uncomfortable as it was with all its connotations, snow calmed him. It muted the world down to a level Illya could tolerate.

Illya enjoyed being out here by himself. It gave him time and space to think, because nothing else dared to go after him. It was cold, it was wet, there was nowhere to sit and they would after all be in the company of a polar bear the size of a small car. Most people were decidedly uncomfortable with that.

It suited Illya all the better. His second nature allowed him to have this time and space to himself, in conditions nobody else could endure. And even though he worked for the KGB under very strict regulations, they allowed him to have this for himself.

Illya got up to stand on all fours and moved a few hundred meters behind a hill. He could not see the concrete buildings from here, everything looked like mother nature had made it. Illya breathed in the icy air and finally let down his guard, laying down and rolling around in the snow a couple of times. He vaguely felt a cool sensation, but he was not cold per sé. Sitting up on his hind legs, he found himself suddenly guilty of what little fun he was having. Now that he could control his shifting he should have better things to do with it than playing in the snow.

Illya still felt bad about the beginning. It was long ago now, but Illya would never forgive himself.

* * *

 

He was scared. Illya knew there was good reason to be scared but he still hated himself for it with everything his ten-year-old heart could muster.

Illya was not scared for himself, no, those days were over since his father had ‘left’. He knew he could stand his ground. Illya was tall for his age, he was well equipped with weapons, skill and determination to stand up against what or whoever may come at him.

But Illya was scared for his mother, because there was nothing he could do to help her. He loved his mother and he would gladly go out and work, a boy of his size could find work somewhere, he was sure of it. But she would not let him, she kept him in the house, sent him to school of all places; all while she sold herself.

Illya was not sure if his mother knew that he was aware of what she did to keep them both alive, but he was not stupid and most importantly, he was not deaf. The moans were audible through the whole house, even when Illya pressed the heels of his hands against his ears so strongly that he feared he would crack his own skull. He could still hear the grunts and groans of men, strange men, echoing through his entire world.

Illya hated himself for being scared.

If he stepped in, he would put not only his own, but also his mother’s life in danger. Of course there was the immediate danger of the drunkards that depended on his mother’s ‘services’. But if Illya should succeed, there was more danger waiting just around the corner. Starvation, death.

He was sure, his mother would never sell herself if there was any other way, but this was no comfort to Illya.

He stayed back.

It went on and on. Illya hid in the last corner of his room whenever he heard somebody entering the house. He was too terrified to move for hours on end, every noise, every creak of a bed and throaty gasp shook him in bone-shattering tremors.

His mother was quiet. He heard everything but her.

Until one day he did hear her.

Illya’s first reaction was relief. Whenever he heard his mother, the danger was over, he could move again. But not this time. This time, it was not her soft voice calling him to eat a dinner he would barely touch, it was not her scolding tone telling him to carry some wood over to the fireplace. It was a cry.

It was a cry mixed into the cacophony of despised sounds and even though Illya knew deep inside that this was not the right time, his mother’s voice as always gave him the strength to move. And move he did. Out the door of his room, slamming it into the wall with considerable force. He stormed down the narrow staircase that even seemed to shrink around him. His feet hit the wooden floor heavily, as he ran into his mother’s room, bursting through the door, nearly shattering it.

The cries stopped.

For a moment there was silence, absolute silence and Illya was sure he had succeeded as he looked down at the room before him.

The next second all hell broke loose. Instead of cries, his mother screamed, a noise louder than any Illya had heard before and the man she was with did the same. In his eyes was pure terror and as he pulled up his trousers and pressed himself into the last corner of the room, Illya realised that something was off. Something was very wrong.

“Mother!” He cried out, looking down at her from a height he had never before possessed, but the sound of his voice, a throaty roar filling the whole room, startled him and he fell down on all fours, front paws heavily hitting the floor. The whole room seemed to shake, vaguely in the back of his mind, Illya realised, his mother was screaming again and the man came running at him, but he was backing out of the room of his own volition, shocked beyond belief, eyes unable to leave his claws, the white fur that covered his arms – legs?

Another sound left his throat, as he continued walking backwards and bumping into the furniture. The man had picked up a broom from beside the fireplace, while Illya had been preoccupied with himself and now started to beat Illya across his snout, landing a hard hit next to his right eye, which sent Illya standing up on his hind legs. He slapped the broom out of the man’s grip before he turned and stormed out the back door into the cold winter.

The cold was not a source of his discomfort, but Illya barely found time to be thankful for it.

Being a Shifter was bad enough without having anybody knowing about it or being especially large in their other form, but of course Illya did not have the luck to get either.

He ran, in the shadows of early dusk, through streets he knew empty at this time, out into the fields until he could no longer see, hear or smell the city.

* * *

 

It had taken Illya three days until he shifted back. By the time he made it back to the city, he was almost frozen to death and starved and next to his eyes was an open wound that had started to bleed again when he shifted back.

According to everybody, it was a wonder he was still alive. This wonder lasted for about a week, before everybody knew that it was not a wonder, but a curse.

Knowing that Illya was a Shifter, everybody started to avoid not only him but also his mother. There was no more work for her and even though Illya started working all sorts of jobs himself, they barely had enough to keep themselves alive. His worst fears had been come true. He had ruined their lives by stepping in.

When he applied to the KGB, they took him without further question. Of course they knew about his condition, but they believed it to be some sort of asset. Really, Illya knew that he was far more dangerous in his human form than otherwise, because only then, he could completely control himself. The polar bear inside him was rage, anger. It was charged with negative emotions that clouded his mind and his judgement and made him unreliable.

Learning to control himself was difficult, but eventually Illya did learn. Not enough was known about Shifters, in order to train them to one’s advantage, which was why the KGB largely left Illya to train himself in that regard. And he did, because he knew how thankful he could be that he was not being deported like the ones he had heard of, the ones that never came back, the ones that were victims to the search for answers that could help train Shifters like Illya.

So over the years Illya’s shifting had stopped being triggered solely by anger. He could control it, but he was far from perfect. Triggering a Shift was easy enough. There was no way to explain the process to an outsider, but it worked. Changing back took a lot of dedication, but even this, Illya eventually mastered.

The problem was not shifting; it lay in holding himself back. Illya could control the positive, the shifting and shifting back, but he could not control the negative: the not shifting when he was angry.

To this day, nearly twenty years after he had first shifted, Illya still could not hold himself back from shifting in anger. It was his worst trait and what ate at him was, that he knew with terrifying certainty it would never change.

The sun was setting behind a hill, the cold became more pronounced and Illya realised that he must have been sitting there for longer than he had planned. Judging by the sun, he would likely be back too late to get dinner, so he might as well stay here and watch.

Snow was still not romantic, Illya found, even though it looked nice enough. He had suffered too much because of it, nearly frozen to death, to find snow appealing. However as Illya watched the sun paint the sky purple, pink, red and orange, he noted to himself that this sight was truly beautiful. This was romantic.

When twilight crept over the hills, Illya unwillingly turned and trotted back to where he belonged now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is longer! Enjoy :))

The CIA usually did not allow Napoleon to go on missions that required him to leave the country. They thought it was too big a risk, he could escape, he could be lost to them forever. And rightly so, because Napoleon _could_ do that without the shadow of a doubt. So he stayed within the borders of the United States of America, whether he liked it or not, even though they all knew he was too highly qualified for the missions they sent him on. His foreign language skills, acquired mostly in the war, surpassed those of the other agents by miles and so did most of his other skills.

Napoleon knew all this and he was smug about it, but the Agency never budged, never gave in, so Napoleon continued to work cases in the US, bored out of his mind, because there was no challenge in this work; there was no fun.

The trip to Germany was more a spur of the moment thing than anything else, because the agent that had previously been assigned to it came down with the flu.

Napoleon was ecstatic, but he did not show it. Showing happiness or excitement or any emotion really, was a weakness that could be used against him. He did not show his emotions, but he still had them.

The last time he had been in Germany, had been on a stealing spree after the war. It had been good, much of the money he had made was still stashed somewhere the CIA would never look for it.

The hotel they stayed in was sub-standard for the director of the CIA, but it was necessary.

Napoleon did not get a lot of information in his briefing about the mission. His goal was to extract a young lady called Gaby Teller from the East and bring her to West-Berlin. It seemed simple enough, no problem at all for Napoleon.

Getting in would be the easiest part. Over the years Napoleon had learned to manoeuvre his fox-self through all sorts of situations, over borders, into private grounds, dodging security systems like it was nothing. This border was not so much a problem for him as it was a challenge to prove himself. He was looking forward to it.

Getting out would require his convincing oratory skills and a car, but he was sure they were going to make it.

Then, just when Napoleon wanted to remark how easy it was going to be, Sanders spoke up once again.

“We believe we were followed here. If at any point you’re being followed, don’t let it distract or hinder you. We need the girl. If you have to stay behind so be it, but we need her.”

It made it clear to Napoleon just how expendable Sanders thought him to be. He also knew that Sanders’ words were set out as bait for his ego, to awaken the will to prove Sanders wrong and finish the mission admirably.

Napoleon was used to these tactics, but he knew he could do everything they wanted of him and more. He did not need to be baited into it.

Just as planned he got in easily. Two streets from where he was supposed to find the girl, Napoleon shifted back and as promised he found the equipment he would need for their return to the West hidden in a dirty paper bag tucked behind a rusty lamp post.

Napoleon looked around. There was nothing suspicious here, he could hear a baby crying from a window just across the street, a boy in ratty old clothes hurrying down the sidewalk past Napoleon. It was quiet here and there was definitely nobody watching him.

The way to the shop was completely uninterrupted, Napoleon had a spring in his step, marvelling at how smoothly everything seemed to be going.

Gaby was extraordinary. The woman was a force to be reckoned with, Napoleon knew from the moment he first heard her voice from underneath the car she was working on.

Their conversation could have gone more smoothly, but Napoleon was aware that she was only playing hard to get. The plan was still fully under way.

He was so fully convinced that everything was going smoothly, that it was Gaby who noticed the hiccup.

The hiccup came in the form of a tall man, leaning against the façade of a house on the opposite side of the street. He seemed to be watching the entrance of the shop, unaware that he himself was being watched. Napoleon knew they had to act quickly. The man did not seem like the type of person who was just out there for a quick smoke. There was something immediately threatening to him and Napoleon’s senses were alert with the acute feeling of danger.

He jumped into the car with Gaby who insisted on driving. And drive she did; Gaby was superb at it and it was no wonder that the man had a hard time keeping up with them, even though he had jumped into another car to go after them, seconds after they had started out of the gates of the shop. Napoleon’s senses had been right after all. He scribbled their route onto a map, keeping an eye on the street and another on the man who was still in pursuit of them.

Shooting at him required Napoleon to get a good look at him. The man’s face was nice, Napoleon had to say, he was handsome, even though his scowling expression scrunched up the handsome features into something grim. Then Napoleon pulled the trigger and before he knew it, the face vanished from his vision. The man was fast. Napoleon fired again, before Gaby raced on.

Shooting at the tall man’s car, stepping from the shadows, Napoleon functioned on auto-pilot. It was a wonder that the other agent – Napoleon was sure the man was working for some agency or another – was still after them.

But he really only started to intrigue Napoleon when he was back in the car and assumed the other agent disabled. The exact moment the tall man came racing after the car, running, something inside Napoleon clicked. His feelings towards the man shifted from slight annoyance to utter fascination. That was not a normal human being, it was insane. When he ripped the back off Gaby’s car, Napoleon had to admit to himself that he was less frightened than he was turned on, but that was something he would have to worry about another time. For now all that counted was getting across the wall; both him and Gaby.

And they did. The second he felt the escape van move under his feet, driving back to the shabby hotel, Napoleon’s first instinct was to shift and curl up into his fur in a tiny corner in the back of the van. That, however, was not a luxury he could allow himself. Instead he kept his eyes fixed on Gaby. She was the prize; he only let his guard down once he knew Gaby safely in the hotel, Sanders in the next room. They could not blame him for anything now.

Yet, they still did. They blamed him for something he had not had any influence on. How should he have handled the situation? He had tried everything, their pursuer had been too powerful. Somewhere in the back of his mind Napoleon knew that he could have shot that giant of a man somewhere along the way, and yet he had not. The irony was not lost on him. Sanders obviously wanted the other agent dead or at least shut down for the near future but something told Napoleon there was more to it. He did his research before going to bed.

Once again Napoleon had been right; there was indeed more to it. The second Illya Kuryakin slammed into Napoleon with his whole body, Napoleon was aware who was attacking him without even looking. Frantically he tried to fight him off; he resisted the urge to shift and slither out of the other man’s grip, but only barely. Just before Napoleon would have used up the last of his breath, an unknown voice spoke up.

“Kuryakin.” The other man stopped his movements, but continued to hold Napoleon’s neck decidedly too tightly.

“Don’t kill your partner on your first day.” Kuryakin had the exact same reaction Napoleon would have shown in the situation. He pushed Napoleon away from him forcefully.

Napoleon gasped for air and pressed out one word in utter disbelief.

“What?” He took another breath. “What does that mean?”

Napoleon’s Russian was a bit rusty but he did not think that Sanders thought so little of him.

“He said ‘Don’t kill your partner on your first day’”, Napoleon’s boss said and there was nothing he could do to keep his agent from rolling his eyes.

“I know what he said. What does it mean?”

He had a premonition.

Napoleon had received a very short briefing on Illya Kuryakin just this morning, adding to what little information Napoleon had been able to dig up the previous evening. He had already wondered about the briefing. On the one hand it was nice to know what or rather who he was up against, even though he had not expected to meet Kuryakin again. On the other hand, Napoleon mentally kicked himself, while he straightened his back and turned to face the Russian again. He should have known that Sanders did not care enough about his unanswered questions to brief him on another agent. He should have known he was going to meet Kuryakin again. He should have known that something was up, that Sanders was not telling him about.

But since that was usually the case with Sanders, Napoleon had paid little attention to the fact and now he had been utterly humiliated.

Kuryakin was glaring at Napoleon, who raised an eyebrow in response. The Russian scowled.

They went outside; ordered coffee. Despite the time of day – it was barely 11 AM – the atmosphere was eerie. Napoleon recognised some of the people around them as CIA agents. He supposed the rest of them were KGB. This was bound to be important.

In fact, it was nuclear-war-important. Napoleon could not believe that Sanders was entrusting him with this case. Of all people, it was him… and Kuryakin. What a team.

Even Napoleon had to admit that they did not necessarily have the best chemistry. The way Kuryakin kept glaring at him made Napoleon want to shift, leap over the table and sink his teeth into the Russian’s arm. It would be so gratifying, because it was most probably the last thing Kuryakin anticipated. Unless Sanders had given out information about Napoleon, that he yearned to keep private. If he had, Napoleon could not say with certainty how loyal he was going to be.

When Sanders and Oleg left, so did everybody else.

Except for Kuryakin.

“Get to know each other,” they had said. What a joke. Napoleon already knew everything he needed to know in order to judge as to what kind of person Kuryakin was. Dark childhood, anger issues. It did not surprise him in the least.

But Kuryakin was strong, he was too strong for Napoleon not to take this chance to test his limits and tickle out something more. He needed to know those limits in order to stay safe in the future. It was still neutral territory here in Germany. As soon as the mission started, anything went and Napoleon was dead set on having the upper hand in this play of power.

He was not planning to stay long, so he brought out the big guns from the very start. Kuryakin liked to think that Napoleon knew nothing about him, but Sanders had given him exactly as much as Napoleon needed to provoke, to poke at the sore spots of Kuryakin’s life.

Talking about Kuryakin’s mother selling her body to keep herself and her son alive had seemed like a good idea before, but as he went on, Napoleon felt a growing sense of shame. It was not something he often experienced, so he pushed it away, but it was a low blow even for him.

However, Napoleon was in too deep to back away and look for another insecurity, and sure enough Kuryakin became increasingly irritated and angry.

“I understand your mother was extremely popular amongst your father’s friends…”

Napoleon saw Kuryakin’s jaw clenching, unclenching, his index finger was tapping rhythmically as the Russian continued to stare at Napoleon.

“…when he was shipped off to Siberia.”

The process was so familiar that Napoleon witnessed it in minute detail. The change of facial shape, the hands becoming paws, and a change in size, only not like Napoleon, no, Kuryakin changed differently. Instead of shrinking, the Russian grew, a remarkable feat for an already imposingly tall man.

The polar bear let out a roar, that startled Napoleon even though he had been somewhat prepared for it, then swiped the fragile table out of its way with one paw before landing heavily to stand on all fours. Like this, he was still as tall as Napoleon, who remained seated, coffee cup in his left hand.

Kuryakin’s glare was even more intense in this form. Napoleon felt the huffs of breath leave the bear’s nostrils. It was intimidating, that much was for sure, but if Napoleon kept his position he would leave this day as the winner in their unspoken contest.

Anger issues, they had said.

“Anger issues,” Napoleon said to himself. Kuryakin came closer and bared his teeth.

Then he turned and walked away past Napoleon, gaining speed until his light form was invisible between the trees in the park and Napoleon was left alone with his thoughts and his coffee.

Anger issues, Napoleon thought.

“Wow,” he said to himself.

This mission had just gotten a lot more interesting.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angsty Illya chapter :D

Illya was ashamed. He had not planned for the meeting to end like this. Once again he cursed his self-control. Surely, other Shifters could control themselves even when provoked. It was just him, who shifted in anger.

And now he had already given away his biggest advantage over the American. He had wanted to keep it a secret, wanted to use it to his advantage to secure the outcome of the mission in favour of Russia.

Now he had messed up already, and the mission had not even started.

Out of sight from the American, Illya’s anger quickly vanished; he shifted back and sat down onto a bench heavily. Around him, everything was quiet. He was still within the perimeter that had been secured by the Agencies, so there were no people going for a casual morning walk here. But that was not all, it was quiet, to the point that there was not even a single bird call, no squirrels rustling in the bushes. It was eerie.

However, Illya was used to this; nature tended to be really quiet when there was a predator the size of Illya’s polar bear around.

Gradually, noises started back up, birds started chirping and singing. It was peaceful here.

Illya allowed himself five minutes to calm down and contemplate his further moves. But it turned out, that he could think of absolutely nothing he could do, except go with the plan as it had been; meet with Gaby… put up with the American.

Napoleon Solo was just about what Illya had expected when briefed about him. Snobby and utterly sure of himself. It was a wonder he had come so far, but Illya assumed that was not for nothing. Solo probably knew his business.

But beyond that, what Illya had noticed most about Solo were his looks. The man was seriously good looking and it did not help with Illya’s emotional constipation at all. He had already realised it when trying to catch up with the car, the previous evening. There had been something in Solo’s eyes, when Illya had ripped part of the trunk off the car. Something that Illya was unable to place, but it only added to how stupidly attractive the American was. There was a part of him, a small, very suppressed part of his mind, that wanted to throw Solo against a wall, kiss him senseless and have his way with him, until Solo knew who had the upper hand in their little team, but Illya needed to keep it together so he shoved that desire down even further into the back of his mind.

Illya had assumed he was straight until he joined the KGB. Being a Shifter, he had already had more than his fair share of stares and looks. Everybody knew him to be an outsider and Illya was sure it was only the sheer size of the bear within, that kept people from doing more than stare.

It was never said like this, never in the papers, never even whispered, but Shifters with smaller, defenceless animals were easier to abuse, to kill. If one died under mysterious circumstances, it was always just that; never a hate crime. But everybody knew what had happened. So Illya thanked any higher power for the polar bear, the only positive thing about his situation.

When he joined the KGB and found himself almost exclusively surrounded by men, Illya realised that he was not solely attracted to women and it ate at him.

Being gay, or anything remotely like it, was even worse than being a Shifter. A gay shifter was about the worst thing one could be. Despair clawed at him for months, as he tried to will his attraction away. He was not successful. And Illya, strong-headed as he was, had decided that if it did not go away, he would simply ignore it.

With this attitude, he had channelled all the frustration, confusion and misplaced attraction into one thing: becoming better, training, rising to the top.

It had gotten him this far and now Illya was in the worst place he could ever have imagined. In a team with an American. A non-shifter, probably even with an anti-shifter attitude. A thief with terrible morals. A wildly attractive man.

This was truly rock bottom.

Illya had been sitting there for more than five minutes now and still he had no plans, no thoughts at all, except regrets about past mistakes and future problems.

He got up and headed for the boutique, where he was supposed to meet Gaby Teller. At least he would have some time away from Solo before their mission started.

They had different cover stories too. The only thing they had in common was the hotel they were staying in. There should not be that much interaction between them until later on in the mission. It would give Illya time to build up a comfort zone around himself, a sort of safety system to fall back on.

Gaby was fierce. She would take some to get used to, but Illya was sure they were going to work well together. Her fierceness was what seemed to pull Illya in and captivate him. She was attractive, intelligent. A wonderful woman, but as much as Illya would love to lose himself in feelings for her, it could not be. His thoughts kept snapping back to Solo, the infuriating pest, and as if summoned by the mere thought of him, the American came striding through the door mere moments later.

He looked good. Illya had expected nothing else and was still taken aback; impossible! He had the audacity to criticise Illya, look at him a certain way, as if to test the waters, carefully stepping around him, as if he feared, Illya would shift any moment. It was even more infuriating than his constant nagging.

He still felt Napoleon staring at him when he turned away, and it was uncomfortable, but there was something thrilling about being watched so closely by Solo. Illya tried not to think closely about what that was; it would do him no good.

_Peril._

It resonated with Illya, but he would not let it show. He scoffed, trying to shove Solo off, trying to get himself some peace, but the American insisted on interfering, insisted on staying and questioning Illya’s every move. Even if Solo did not actively say anything, Illya felt the stare, the judgement. The crackling tension between them.

_Cowboy._

It fit him. The Peril now had a counterpart. Illya was proud.

Rome was a beautiful city like none other Illya had visited. It was beautiful, sights he had read about were so near, so tangible.

Gaby seemed to appreciate the city as well, she called Illya out on his made-up stories. She was indeed clever and she was not holding herself back even one bit.

They were having a good night. Until Solo came along, looking unfairly good and sounding unbelievably annoying. Of course he was bragging about his observation skills, as if Illya had not noticed their pursuers himself. The American really had to think him incompetent and it was eating at Illya, he was becoming increasingly frustrated, so when they were cornered, knife snapping between the fingers of one Italian, Illya was already on the verge of shifting simply from being riled up.

Gaby’s gentle touch to his arm kept him grounded. He gave away his wallet, he endured the loss of Gaby’s ring. But then they dared to go for his watch and Illya felt the polar bear roar inside of him. He felt the familiar dizzying sensation that came with shifting, but then he heard Gaby’s voice through the haze. He felt Solo’s stare like a phantom sensation in his neck and immediately snapped out of it. The anger and pain were still there. They were tempting, too tempting to give into; but what gave Illya the power to resist, was the shame he would feel later, the satisfaction he would give Solo. He could not show his weakness again.

So he did not. He swallowed all those feelings and gave away his watch.

Illya felt so naked, so vulnerable that for a split second he asked himself whether shifting would have been the better option after all. Then he felt the relief radiating off Gaby and sure enough, after a minute Solo joined them. He was gloating; yet again he had Illya at a disadvantage and he knew it. Illya hated himself for making it possible.

There was a small smile playing around the corners of Solo’s mouth, as if he was putting a seal on the secret they shared. It was a small gesture, nothing that even Gaby would notice, but Illya did and suddenly, he could breathe more freely. Maybe Solo was not so bad to work with after all.

Illya shifted in the bathroom that night. He was itching to shift, but there was nowhere he could go, nobody he trusted enough to show himself like this. The bath of their suite was spacious enough, so he let the familiar sensation of the Shift wash over him.

Somehow Illya’s polar bear form felt less crowded in the bathroom than his human one did, despite taking up considerably more space. However, there was something truly freeing to this form and suddenly, Illya found himself wanting to confront Solo about this. He wanted to get this barrier out of the way, he wanted to make peace.

Perhaps, this notion came from the part of his mind that insistently told Illya, how good Solo’s long fingers would feel carding through his fur, or massaging the top of his head between his ears. Illya huffed out a harsh breath. It was never going to happen. Solo probably looked down on him. The smile before could just as well have been the confirmation that Solo knew how close Illys had been to shifting, and that he was sure of his superior position. It was unnerving. Illya wished, he had another form to shift to. Everything felt uncomfortable. When he saw an unfamiliar form clipped to a shower curtain, Illya quickly shifted back. A bug. Damn the American; it was not the bugging itself, Illya had a problem with. After all he had bugged Solo’s room as well; rather the notion that Solo thought to do the exact same thing to him unnerved him to no end.

Sleep barely helped, but Illya knew he had to, still.

The next morning, he found himself more comfortable than before. He got up, got dressed, exchanged some early morning banter with Gaby. Everything seemed perfect. A nice morning. Then came a knock at the door.

Solo.

Illya swallowed his already growing annoyance, as he hissed at him, but Solo just leaned back against the wall and calmly proceeded to throw one bug after another at Illya. Raising his eyebrows, Illya turned without comment and returned a moment later to reciprocate. For the first time in days, it was his turn to be smug; the American technology had nothing on the Russians’. But Solo could not even grant him this victory as he criticised his bow-tie, already half turned around to leave.

The man was insufferable, but to Illya’s shock, the desire to grab him by the collar of his ridiculously soft and impossibly flattering bath robe and slam him into a wall to kiss him into oblivion, was back and even stronger. Illya shivered.

Despite his rational reasoning not to listen to Solo, he eventually put on a different tie.

Illya did not like Rudy. He was sure his bear instincts had a say in this feeling but even non-Shifters had to feel that something was off about the man. He was terrible, smooth-talking but with words that could cut if you looked at them from the right angle. From the distance Illya saw Solo a few times, always hanging around Victoria Vinciguerra. He felt a pang of jealousy when he saw how close Napoleon was to her, how his body language did not obscure his interest in her in the least. Yet another thing about him, that unnerved Illya.

But jealousy was irrational. Why be jealous when the desired was not even potentially available. Illya had no guarantee whatsoever that Solo was even interested in men. And that was where this thought stopped; for one thing, because Illya was not, could not possibly be contemplating a serious interest in Solo, and for another, Rudy was talking to him, or rather about him.

Gaby tried to come to his rescue, but Rudy hit too close to home, he came too close to being right, to discovering all there was about Illya in just a minute, that Illya was sure he had had some information about him beforehand. Rudy was like Solo, only in a rotting, slimey-slithering kind of way, instead of a suave and charming one. It was even more upsetting to be analysed by the German.

Illya felt like shifting, throwing up and throwing punches at the same time. He chose to run.

The bathroom was not empty. The pressure to shift, to blow off steam was too great for Illya to remain calm and composed. Instead he allowed himself to be provoked and quite literally threw the men out the door.

It was not his proudest moment, but as Illya sat on the dirty bathroom floor in his human form, head between his knees, trying not to throw up, he could not care less about proud moments.

Going back to the hotel was a blur, but Gaby acted like a soothing balm to his burning emotions.

Under the guise of developing photographs, Illya once again retreated to the bathroom. He spent half an hour as a polar bear, enjoying the cool tiles underneath his fur-covered flank, before his fingers were steady enough to even begin with his work.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another big boy!

Napoleon noticed what a hard time Kuryakin was having. Part of that was his own fault, he was well aware. What had once seemed like a good idea, now looked to him like the mistake that could bring down their mission into a giant disaster. Provoking the other agent turned out to be a way worse idea than he had anticipated.

However, the Russian did not let anything get him down, held back from shifting again in public and for that Napoleon could only respect him. Plainly said, his respect had multiplied the moment he had laid his eyes on the giant bear before him. It was an impressive sight, utterly stunning. It fit Kuryakin. The animals tended to fit their respective Shifters incredibly well. It was not always obvious, but usually the other forms made sense in the long run. Napoleon’s form had made absolute sense from the very start and so did Kuryakin’s.

When Napoleon knocked on the door to that hotel room for the second time in a day, he found himself opposite Gaby for a change. She ushered him inside.

Kuryakin seemed rattled, as he emerged from the bathroom talking about radiation and whatnot. Napoleon listened; that was his job after all. But he also stared. The Russian was intriguing him, the attraction Napoleon had felt the very first time that had interacted, had not faded, but only intensified over time. Seeing Kuryakin had been one thing, but getting to know him as an intelligent man, an excellent agent and a Shifter at that, had added oxygen to the spark of attraction so that now a steady flame was lit within Napoleon.

He left the room again, thinking how easily Kuryakin could be riled up. Just telling him that he was going to sleep, had already made him scrunch up his gorgeous face into a grumpy grimace.

And somehow he still looked good.

Of course Napoleon was going to do anything but sleep. As soon as he was back in his room, he threw on an outfit, as useful as it was good looking, packed what he knew he was going to need and made his way to the facility near the harbour.

No five minutes after him, Kuryakin arrived, and unexpectedly, he bested Napoleon in their little contest of wit and resourcefulness, granting them easy access onto the property. Napoleon would have preferred to cut himself a small hole and slip through as his fox self was used to doing, but since both of them had to get through, they might as well cut one big hole. It was all the better that Napoleon had not yet given up his own secret. And he was not planning to. As long as he had this advantage, he could secure the codes for the CIA; he could buy himself free. It was ideal.

Napoleon did not let Kuryakin have this glory for long though, when the Russian turned out to be utterly bad at picking locks. Napoleon bared his teeth in a sharp, gleeful grin once they were inside. It was perfect.

Despite all expectations he had had, the two of them worked together perfectly. The grin promptly left his face, when a large shadow loomed over him. Looking to his side, Napoleon saw Kuryakin’s giant polar bear form standing on his hind legs, peering down at him, before landing on all fours with a thump and charging at an unsuspecting guard. It was a magnificent sight, but Napoleon needed to get himself together. This was not the time for unnecessary appreciation of another shifter, no matter how gorgeous he was in any form.

And so Napoleon went to work himself.

Seeing Kuryakin shift back was mesmerising. The slightly confused expression of reorientation that Napoleon was so familiar with, himself, was a good look on Kuryakin’s face; it made him relatable, vulnerable to Napoleon. It showed the humanity and the similarity that all Shifters shared.

Kuryakin seemed to be calmer around Napoleon as well. Maybe he was realising that they really worked together well. Maybe he was starting to trust Napoleon. There was great potential in this team and even though Napoleon would never admit it to Kuryakin, it was not only his own skills, that made it work.

Napoleon had cracked codes, picked many locks and hacked into many safes in his life. He had a perfect system set up to work with the fine hearing of his fox form, but he was still great at it without the luxury of shifting.

There was just one small hiccup to the plan. A custom alarm was installed in this model that was usually not equipped with one. Napoleon did not even have enough time to blame himself for not detecting it, before it went off and Kuryakin shot him the dirtiest of looks. He had not even needed to try to best Napoleon, he had messed up all by himself and it delighted the Russian.

For now, Napoleon could do nothing at all to pay him back for his unplanned victory, so he concentrated on the important thing and stole what they were after.

The alarm was doing its job and sure enough, they were being shot at not a minute later. Kuryakin looked at him, blame in his eyes, but also a twinkle of humour? Recklessness?

He jumped out of the window and for a moment Napoleon was just stunned, then he went after him. The adrenaline clouded his mind for a second and he lost the grip on his form. He had probably shifted for a moment, because when he landed, he was more disoriented than seriously hurt. Luckily, Kuryakin seemed to be too concentrated on hotwiring the boat that he did not even spare a glance for Napoleon.

He got onto the boat when the dizziness had passed, just a second before Kuryakin took it into the water of the harbour towards the gates. Napoleon sensed them moving before he saw that they were indeed closing. Kuryakin threw the boat into a sharp turn that nearly threw Napoleon off, but he managed to cling on to the back of Kuryakin’s jacket. The second gate began to close, just as behind them another boat began to chase them. Napoleon could practically feel the tension, anxiety and frustration radiating off the Russian. The following turn threw him off and Napoleon found himself in the wild water, search lights above him as he swam to the harbour wall and climbed out. Once safely back on solid ground, Napoleon allowed himself to shift and shake himself, so the icy ocean water sprayed in all directions off of him. When he shifted back, he was almost dry. It was a neat little trick he had tried in his experimenting phase between the ages of 15 and 16 when he had tried just how far he could go with his Shifting. He would never have thought that it would become useful when he was twice that age and a spy of all things.

The food he found in the truck was an unforeseen bonus, but Napoleon could not resist. He was aware of the irony, as he watched Kuryakin being chased out in the water, trying so desperately to outrun his pursuer, but there was no way, Napoleon knew this. He was about to give him up; he could not possibly save Kuryakin after all, now that he was gone, underwater. If he did not come back up as his polar bear form, there was nothing Napoleon could do… and Napoleon could finish the mission better if he was alone anyway.

But then he remembered the flash second before he had crashed into the water, the terror on the Illya’s face when he realised that Napoleon was no longer holding on to him and something inside him changed in that moment. He knew with a start that there could be more for them, if he only tried. And Napoleon was willing to try, he was willing to lay it all down to Illya for a chance at more because the Russian was as handsome as he was intelligent and Napoleon was equally attracted to both those traits.

There were no clues that could have told him whether Illya was interested in men, or Napoleon specifically, but if Napoleon did not save him, there might never be, so the decision to be made was not hard at all.

Napoleon swallowed down the panic, that instinctively tried to take over his senses as he drove the truck over the harbour wall, onto the boat.

As was to be expected, the truck sank, slowly but surely, and Napoleon shivered at the anticipation of being back in the cold water. He did not like it, but in the headlight of the truck, he saw Illya’s motionless body and the adrenaline, that shot through him at the sight, made him roll down the window and take a deep breath. He swam over to Illya and grabbed him, kicked his legs and slowly made his way to the surface. His lungs were burning. Illya must have been unconscious before he fell into the water with no way to shift and partly Napoleon cursed at him mentally, because polar bears could swim and there would not have been a reason for Napoleon to get wet again. But if the polar bear form had been unconscious, there really would have been no way for Napoleon to save him and that was the thought that kept him going even though his lungs were fighting against him and Illya’s weight was dragging him down.

When he breached the surface, the nightly breeze hit him, the first breath he took felt like ice in his lungs. He coughed weakly and took another breath. With all his strength, Napoleon managed to keep Illya’s head over water and move them back over to the wall. Just before he reached it, Illya began to move.

“Cowboy,” he coughed. Napoleon smile to himself. He had done the right thing.

“You saved me. Why?” Napoleon saw him struggling to get out of the water and lent him a hand.

Their eyes met, There was a surprising amount of emotion in the blue of Illya’s eyes.

“Don’t make me regret it, Peril,” he replied and turned away. Now was not the time to get carried away with how thankful Illya looked, and what exactly that did to Napoleon’s heart rate.

By the time the two of them were back at the hotel, they were dried off. The warm breeze had done its part and Illya had held on to Napoleon so tightly, that Napoleon’s back was kept warm. Illya’s presence was on his mind the whole ride back, the way he was pressing into Napoleon did nothing to divert his thoughts from the path they seemed to be on more and more often the longer he was in contact with Illya.

Seeing Victoria’s car in front of the hotel put an abrupt halt to Napoleon’s unwanted thoughts as his body sprang into action, Illya just as alert. Then they were racing through the hotel together, splitting up when they were on Illya’s floor.

Once he was in his room, Napoleon stripped off his still slightly damp clothes, threw them into his closet and put on a pair of pyjama bottoms and a bathrobe hastily. Not a moment later, the lock to his room turned and Victoria came strutting into the room like she owned it. Napoleon’s heart was racing, but he did not let it show. He was good at hiding his inner workings.

“Grape?” was met with a sly grin. Victoria was well aware that something was off, and Napoleon could only hope that she was not clever enough to actually figure out what.

It was her, who made the first move, shoving Napoleon back against the bathroom door before he caught himself and went to work. Because that was what it was. The receptionist the previous night had been fun and games, but Victoria was work. He needed to keep up their collective cover. This was not for his pleasure – not solely – it was for Illya as well, for the glint of something more Napoleon had seen in his eyes. For the press of something more, with which Illya had clung to Napoleon on the ride back. It was for the hint of something more Napoleon had heard in Illya’s voice after he had saved the Russian.

This was for them, this was work and Napoleon took his work seriously. But then he found himself wondering how it would be to have this with another certain blond person and it gave him another thing to work for.

When Illya asked him if he was sure Victoria believed him, he answered with a clear conscience.

Illya looked at him a certain way and Napoleon’s breath came just a bit heavier after that, he sat up straight and cleared his throat. When he looked back up at Illya, the same intensity was still there, but then Gaby came into the room and the moment was gone.

Napoleon had had many flings with men, primarily back in his army days, recently never more than a one-night-stand, but he was not so out of practice that he would completely misunderstand the look with which Illya had just regarded him. There was desire there, there was the undercurrent of their shared secret and there was attraction. This was the clue Napoleon had waited for. Illya wanted him, Napoleon was sure but he was just as sure that the Russian was most probably deeply in denial about it.

Napoleon was not going to hold himself back though. As soon as the mission was over, no matter where they would be shipped off to respectively, Napoleon would confront Illya about this. He was going to ask. The Russian was going to deny everything. Then Napoleon would kiss Illya and the resistance would stop. Napoleon was going to win that unspoken contest as well, like he had nearly all of them so far.

He grinned to himself, a sharp grin, in anticipation as he watched Illya from where he was sitting.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An even bigger boi. This chapter is an absolute UNIT

Hearing Victoria’s moans had felt like a punch to the gut. Illya had not taken it well and Gaby’s smug comment did not help in the least. Illya reminded himself that Napoleon had no obligations to him, no matter if he had saved Illya’s life or not, no matter if Illya was irrationally jealous or not.

Coming back to consciousness, held over water by Napoleon, who had apparently dived back into the harbour for him, even though he owed him nothing, had been quite the experience. It had done for him what little was left to be done for Illya to firmly believe that Napoleon was a good person despite all his obvious flaws.

Now they were about to separate again, each following their part of the mission and for some reason Napoleon kept insinuating, that there was something going on between Illya and Gaby. It unsettled Illya to think that Napoleon might want there to be something. Maybe he had noticed the way Illya could not hide his emotions from being clearly shown in his eyes and was giving Illya hints to back off.

However, it was a matter for another time. For now, they had to concentrate on the mission. Letting Napoleon go back to Victoria did not sit entirely well with Illya, but he blamed it on his jumbled emotions. He himself was to follow Gaby and get her and her father back out of there once she had gotten close enough to make contact.

Illya would be listening via the new engagement ring; there was barely any risk in these proceedings.

Rudy was as unsympathetic a person when he was with Gaby alone, as when he had been talking to Illya as well. The man was terrible. Something about him sent thrills of terror through Illya, but it was nothing obvious, nothing he could put his finger on. Illya felt that he was a bad person nonetheless. He swallowed his discomfort down and proceeded according to their plan. Crouching behind the bushes bordering on the terrace, where Gaby was meeting not only with Rudy but also Alexander Vinciguerra, he installed his listening device and put on the headphones. Gaby’s voice was loud and clear.

It was just pleasantries, further introductions and the likes. Then the conversation turned to the matter at hand and at once, Illya froze.

He looked at the listening device in absolute horror as if that was what was going wrong here. Gaby was giving them up unprompted. Gaby was betraying them. Illya had trusted her. He was not one to trust easily, but he had thought she was worthy of it.

As it turned out, trusting Gaby was about the worst decision he had ever made. The longer she went on talking, the angrier he became. But it was not anger as he usually experienced it.

It was not the red hot anger that boiled up within him when somebody mocked him, it was not the unbridled and carefully provoked feeling of rage running through him, that Napoleon had brought out. It was nothing like the frightened anger, that had led to his first Shift.

No, this anger was not hot like boiling water, all bubbly and difficult to hold onto. This was lava. Thick, slowly rising but burning all the hotter. And slowly, like lava, his anger began to take form; the form of an angry polar bear. For the first time Illya could remember, he had shifted without the too familiar dizzying sensation. He was completely in control. With one step, he crushed the listening device under his paw.

He smelled the hounds before he heard or saw them. He was ready for them when they charged at him, conditioned to attack anything in their reach. Their nature was rebelling against this conditioning; Illya saw the frightened glint in their eyes, but they did their job. He had no chance but to hurt them. When the first bite came to his left shoulder, Illya spun around, throwing the dog off while he lifted his paw to block the other dog, going for his neck.

He tried not to seriously injure the animals; they did not deserve it, but they would not let go, so he had no choice. He let his bear instincts take over.

Illya tasted blood. He knew the taste well enough but it had never been somebody else’s. Disturbingly enough, he did not mind the taste; that was, his polar bear form did not mind. Illya’s rational mind almost terrified by what he was after all doing himself. It was the strangest experience.

The sight he left behind was not pretty, but Illya could not be bothered anymore. His mind was racing, trying to come up with a plan. Get Gaby, get her father, get the codes, get to Rudy, get to Victoria, get to Napoleon.

Illya raced across the lawn, onto the terrace, but it was empty now. Everybody was gone, scattered across wherever and Illya was left here to piece together the traces they left.

Gaby first, he told his rattled brain, because he needed some sort of structure. He ran towards the sound and saw a car just leaving the driveway.

Illya shifted back, looked around and found another car standing in the parking lot of the ridiculously luxurious house. He did not have enough time to get the van with his equipment, otherwise he would lose Gaby and start from zero.

Illya still tasted blood, but now the taste made him gag. The bites in his shoulder and scratches to his neck were hurting; however, it was a dull pain he could easily ignore. He was pretty sure his left index finger was broken, but he could not concentrate on that now.

Just when he was about to open the car door, he spotted the motorbike further back. Without hesitation he jumped on and not sparing a thought for the owner, Illya rode down the road. He saw the car, Gaby was in in the distance. He assumed, Rudy would be with her, so he was going to reach two goals at once.

Illya continued to follow the car to a small harbour, where they stopped and two figures ran for a boat, that lay there waiting for them. This was it. Illya would never get to them, if they took this boat out onto the sea. He sped up the motorbike too fast, he knew it was going to be risky, but even as he jumped off, he felt the familiar dizziness rushing through him before he plunged into the water next to the boat. Swimming in his polar bear form felt so natural. It was so easy, but he could not get lost in the unfamiliar feeling now. He had a mission to complete. He tried to climb onto the boat, that was luckily still tied to the pier.

When this attempt was unsuccessful, he dived.

Thinking back to it, it had not been the most logical or obvious course of action to take, but in that moment, using the leverage from the harbour’s wall to flip the boat and make it useless, seemed like the best choice.

Illya was not sure how, but he managed it and once he came up for air, surprisingly unaffected by minutes underwater, he found himself looking at a shocked Gaby and a trembling Alexander Vinciguerra. To Illya’s advantage they seemed to be too stunned to move, which allowed him to climb out of the water.

He shifted back.

Alexander Vinciguerra, not the most steadfast man anyway, looked like he was about to faint. Gaby was only doing slightly better. Given that she had betrayed him, Illya would have to keep her close, but for now he grabbed Vinciguerra by the arm and opened the trunk of the car with his other hand. Even though Illya was hurt and his finger sent spikes of pain up his entire arm, no amount of struggle could have helped the Italian, but he was still to stunned to even speak, so cramming him into the tight space proved to be less of a problem than Illya would have thought.

Only when the trunk was firmly closed again and Illya was turning around, walking back towards Gaby, Vinciguerra started screaming.

There was nobody there to hear him.

“Very clever, Illya,” Gaby said sarcastically as soon as he was back at her side. He glared down at her. She had no right to speak to him like that.

Illya wanted to yell at her and demand an explanation but he held back.

“What?” he asked instead.

“That boat would have taken us to my father.”

Illya frowned. She was right. But it did not help now. The chances that he could turn the boat back around and it would still function well enough to go wherever they had planned to go, were too slim.

“And now?” he asked. Gaby looked at him for a moment before she sighed.

“Now’s the time where I tell you I’m working for an agency as well.”

Illya looked at her.

She stayed quiet. Illya raised his eyebrows.

Gaby continued.

“U.N.C.L.E. is working in international intelligence. They have no affiliations as to the cold war.” She paused. “We. We have no affiliations as to the cold war.”

So Gaby was an agent.

Illya closed his eyes for a second.

“Why did you not tell me?” he asked. It would have been vital to the mission. None of this would have ever happened.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were a Shifter? A polar bear!”

Illya blinked once. Before he could answer, Gaby continued.

“Doesn’t matter now. I can get us there. And I can get us back-up.”

Back-up was there within an hour. It was an hour spent pacing and planning and reworking plans and blaming himself and Gaby for every mistake. It was an hour he did not think about Napoleon.

“Waverly,” Waverly said as a greeting before he hectically jogged over to where Gaby was standing. Illya stayed back. He watched them talk, gesticulate, but he felt out of place here; he felt like he should be somewhere else. Then he realised why he was feeling this way.

Rudy had not been in the car after all. Wherever he was, it could not be good. And he would not wander off just like that;no, whatever was going on, Rudy had a part in it. And then it hit him.

Napoleon had gone to see Victoria; she had surely been alerted. No matter who of the two Napoleon was with, he was in danger. The situation had just become so much worse. Panic rose in Illya’s chest and clogged his airways. He was trying to breathe steadily when Gaby came over to him.

“We’re going to get my father and finish the mission, get the codes. We have what we need, are you ready?”

“No,” Illya said. Gaby looked at him, question in her eyes.

“No, you go. Is your father, you have no side in conflict. You go.”

“And you?”

“Can I have gun?” Gaby motioned for one of the U.N.C.L.E. agents to come over.

“Gun,” she said, her voice commanding.

He handed it to her and Gaby passed it to Illya. Before she could repeat herself, Illya spoke.

“Cowboy. I get Napoleon.” Gaby’s expression softened at once. Understandingly, she nodded, sympathy shone in her eyes.

“Good luck.”

Illya ran over to where the motorbike had landed on its side. It still worked, so Illya sped back to the mansion as fast as he could. Once there, he discarded the bike where he had found it and ran back to his van.

The warm air did nothing to prevent his lungs from violently stinging once he was back at the van. He climbed inside and set up the tracker.

_Within reach._

Illya could have cried with relief, but he did not. Instead he drove, took sharp turns that were arguably dangerous until the dot on the screen was coming closer and closer and Illya saw the building Napoleon would be in.

He parked the van a good half kilometre away, put his new gun into his empty holster and started running. He was going slower this time, so that he was not exhausted when he arrived. In fact it had warmed him up. He was ready to fight whatever was there.

He shot two guards and made his way inside the building. It looked old, badly cared for. Illya would not want to know what it was used for, if he did not have to. But the thought of Napoleon kept him going. He had left the Cowboy for too long and if anything had happened, that would be his own fault.

Another unsuspecting guard took a hit to the throat, before Illya knocked him out, his partner suffered the same fate. At the end of a long hallway was one more guard. Sneaking up on him was a feat, but Illya managed, because he had to.

The Kiss switched off the man nicely.

Illya turned around. The door to his left had see-through windows. What Illya saw, made him want to throw up.

Strapped into a sort of operation chair, was Napoleon, lying there motionless. He was bleeding from the corners of his mouth. His shirt was hanging open and his stomach was cut open with one straight cut from his chest to the hem of his trousers. Bent over him, studying one of several smaller cuts along Napoleon’s torso with a magnifying glass, was Rudy.

Despite everything, Illya managed to keep his wits together. Quietly he opened the door. If there was one thing in this building that was not old, it was this door. Not a single creak was audible.

Illya wished Napoleon would open his eyes, give him any kind of indication if he was still alive.

Nothing.

Illya clasped a hand around Rudy’s wrist, then took his other and held both of them together behind the man’s back. His finger was protesting, but Illya barely paid it any attention. His other hand went up to grip Rudy’s throat. Illya did not even think to kill the man, he just needed to be out of the way. As he tied the German to another chair, Illya’s hands began to shake. Napoleon was still not moving.

Rudy let out a rattling laugh.

“He’s gone. Whatever you want from him, he’s gone. Even if he’s not all the way dead yet, he will be soon enough and there’s nothing you can do,” Rudy said as soon as Illya turned away from him.

Illya turned back around, his good hand curled into a painfully tight fist at his side. Immediately, Rudy became quiet, let out a whimper.

What a pathetic excuse for a man, Illya thought as he grabbed the last piece of rope and a dirty leather glove.

He shoved the glove between Rudy’s teeth and tightened the rope. The makeshift gag did its job.

Illya’s knees were about to give out under him when he walked over to the chair and saw Napoleon’s wounds up close. He pressed a finger into the soft flesh under Napoleon’s jaw and felt for a pulse.

It was weak but it was there.

In a hectic frenzy, Illya looked at the equipment that lay scattered around. They were instruments of torture, and even if he found something useful, chances were he would not know how to use it. Illya took off his jacket, then his sweatshirt. He grabbed a bloody knife from the table to his right and began to cut the shirt up into long strips. He pressed one of those onto the cut open wound, terrified by how fast he saw blood stains appeared on the fabric. Then he secured it by lifting Napoleon up and tying the rest of his shirt around his middle.

It was the worst solution of a makeshift bandage Illya had ever heard of, but there was no situation to parallel this horror.

A sudden movement from Napoleon startled him.

“Illya?” he asked. His name sounded so right, leaving Napoleon’s lips and yet so wrong being spoken so weakly.

“Yes.”

“You’re not real.” Napoleon closed his eyes. Illya let his eyes wander over his still form. Shallow breaths lifted his chest, but Illya could see how much effort it took the other agent to even breathe.

Then his gaze fell on the restraints and with trembling fingers, Illya unclasped them. As soon as the last restraint around Napoleon’s left wrist was gone, the latter let out a choked noise and before Illya realised what was happening, he was standing in front of an almost empty chair. On the seat lay a bright orange fox.

“Fuck.”

Illya should have sensed something earlier. And maybe he had, but he would contemplate this later. For now, he scooped up the animal in his arms and started running, careful not to further injure Napoleon.

Illya checked for a pulse again when he laid Napoleon down in the passenger seat of the van. It went rapidly, beating against Illya’s finger.

Illya raced back to the harbour. The helicopter the U.N.C.L.E. agents had arrived in was still parked there, Waverly and two of his agents were waiting for news on Gaby, but as soon as Illya brought the van to a screeching halt no two meters behind them, they sprang into action.

Illya refused to let go off Napoleon until he came back to consciousness.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go!

Napoleon felt like he was being torn apart. His whole body was aching and he curled himself together even more.

“Cowboy?” he heard a voice from above. He cracked open an eye.

Illya’s face was unusually large.

“Napoleon! You must shift back. Doctors can treat human form better than fox.”

It took Napoleon every last bit of willpower to shift back. His eyes were firmly set on Illya’s face. The change in colour spectrum was always a bit of a surprise, even after all this time, but focussing on one thing helped. He was so much larger now, that Illya visibly struggled not to drop him. As soon as the Russian moved, a sharp sting of excruciating pain shot through his upper body and nearly knocked Napoleon out again. He closed his eyes, trying to fight the pain, that sent tears down his cheeks.

Napoleon was being set down somewhere. Other people crowded around him, somebody removed the fabric from his stomach, more pain, more pain.

Before Napoleon let unconsciousness cloud his mind again, he opened his eyes once more. Illya was still there. His expression was one of grief and pain.

Then, darkness took Napoleon back under again.

When Napoleon woke the second time, it was in the clean environment of a hospital room.

He knew it by the smell even before he opened his eyes. His whole body felt sore and he was unwell, almost sick. The feeling mostly went away after a few moments and he finally opened his eyes.

Next to him, Illya was sitting in a chair, head tipped back, while his lips were parted and his eyes closed. He was really sleeping here.

Napoleon was thirsty. There was a glass of water on the nightstand next to his bed, but when he extended his arm, it sent a sharp pain even though the haze of painkillers.

He winced.

Next to him, Illya jerked awake.

“Napoleon!” It was a similar tone of voice as he had used the last time Napoleon had woken up.

“Can you –” The American’s voice was scratchy, breaking after two words. However, Illya was already reaching for the glass. Leaning forward, he put his free hand under Napoleon’s head and tipped it upwards.

The water was cool on Napoleon’s tongue, he drank a few sips and the remaining nausea ebbed away.

“Thank you,” he said. Illya remained silent.

Napoleon turned his head to look at him. Illya’s hands were trembling, one finger was bandaged up.

“Are you okay?” Napoleon asked. At that, Illya looked at him. His expression shifted from concerned to disbelieving.

“You ask if I am okay, when you were –” He stopped, as if collecting his thoughts. “you were cut open like slaughtered animal.”

Illya’s voice was weaker now, the trembling of his hands had made his way into his voice.

“That bad?” Napoleon asked. He had passed out after some time of enduring the electric chair, and still was not sure how bad his injuries actually were.

“Yes. Cut open from chest to hips. Cuts in chest, head wound, broken ribs, broken bone in your left arm,” Illya was speaking louder now as if he was angry, but his last words were soft again, like he did not even want to say them at all. “So much blood loss.”

The Russian looked away and Napoleon closed his eyes. He was tired, exhausted by mere minutes of being awake. Before he drifted off again, he felt Illya’s hand brush against his own. A fleeting touch, soft and shy, but it gave Napoleon hope.

When he woke up again, he was alone. It was dark and Illya was not there anymore. Napoleon missed him.

He would never have thought even a week ago that he would feel this way about the other man and yet here he was, almost unable to move, yearning for Illya’s presence.

Sure, he had been attracted to him from the start, but now there were feelings involved and Napoleon was not sure how to deal with them. He had never seriously had feelings for a man, or anybody really. He was not a feelings kind of man. And now he found himself confronted with the issue and was completely unprepared.

Napoleon wanted to roll oved to lie on his side, but as soon as he moved, his arm hurt and his stomach protested violently. The pain was so overwhelming that Napoleon nearly threw up. Even breathing hurt. With all the injuries Illya had told him about, it only made sense.

And still, all Napoleon could think about as the pain receded bit by bit, was how Illya had looked at him, deeply feeling, worried, Napoleon would almost have guessed heartbroken if he did not know better. Heartbroken surely was an overstatement.

Yet, the glint of tears being willed away, when Illya had turned to look out of the window after telling Napoleon about his injuries, told a different story.

Eventually Napoleon fell back asleep.

When he came back to full consciousness, Gaby was sitting at his bedside.

“You’re awake!”

He nodded. The slight movement already made his head throb painfully.

“Illya went outside for a bit.” So Illya was back. Napoleon supressed the smile he felt rising within himself.

“I wanted to tell you myself.” She paused and look at him. Expectantly, he returned the eye contact.

“I’m sorry, Napoleon, I’m so sorry. It was my fault that you’re … like this,” she gestured at his bandaged up form. With a start, Napoleon remembered what Victoria had told him before she drugged him.

“You gave us up to them?” He asked in disbelief.

“I did. I had the orders to.” Napoleon frowned.

“I’m with U.N.C.L.E., an intelligence agency, international. They hired me long before either the CIA or the KGB were interested in me. And I was following orders. I know that’s no excuse but I swear, I wouldn’t have if I – if I had known what he would do to you. I’m sorry, Napoleon.”

Napoleon swallowed and stayed quiet.

“Illya is blaming himself, but I know it’s my fault. I hope one day you can forgive me but I can understand if you don’t.” Her voice was trembling, but Napoleon did not know what to say. He understood it was not directly her fault that he was in the condition he found himself in, but she was still the trigger. Gaby got up and smiled at him sadly, before she left the room.

Not a minute later the door opened again and a man in a white coat came in.

“Doctor James.” Napoleon extended his right hand. It did not hurt as much as the rest of his upper body.

The doctor’s grip was strong, the handshake sincere. As soon as it was over, he started speaking again.

“It’s a miracle that you’re alive. Sliced open like that, it was a wonder you didn’t bleed out before you got here. And that is not counting all the other wounds you lost blood from. I suppose your Shifter nature helped with that.” A small pause to let the words sink in.

“The wounds aren’t pretty. The knives and scalpels used weren’t especially well sharpened, there was a lot of tearing and ripping of the skin… I believe that was on purpose though. The recovery won’t be easy or fast, I’m afraid, and there will be scars, but we managed to keep you alive.”

Napoleon was not sure how to respond.

“Thank you,” was what he went with. James laughed.

“It’s my job, don’t thank me. You should thank your large Russian friend. He saved your life with those terrible makeshift bandages. And by carrying you out of there, with a broken finger at that. You must be good friends; he seems really upset over your condition.”

Napoleon allowed himself to smile.

“Colleagues,” he corrected the doctor.

The look he received in return, puzzled Napoleon. It screamed ‘are you kidding me’ at him loudly, but Napoleon ignored it.

Maybe Illya had wanted him, but that was not James’ business. And most likely Illya did not want him anymore now that he had seen Napoleon ruined like this. Illya did not have feelings for him, Napoleon’s chance with him was gone.

The doctor left the room after checking Napoleon’s bandages.

He was alone for a few minutes, dozing off when the door opened again. Illya looked into the room, his eyes met Napoleon’s.

“Come in,” he said. Illya did. He said nothing as he sat down into the chair at the left side of the bed.

“I heard you broke your finger,” Napoleon said after a moment of silence.

“Yes,” was all Illya offered in return.

“How did it happen?”

“I was attacked by Vinciguerra’s dogs. Was not a pretty fight.” Illya looked down at his finger. “They say I made injury worse by helping you.”

Napoleon was not sure what to do with that information.

“I’m sorry,” he tried.

“No apologies, Cowboy,” Illya said, the glint of a smile in his eyes, but not indicated anywhere else. “Is not your fault.”

Napoleon remained quiet and looked at the white ceiling. He felt that Illya was about to say more, so he waited. And waited. When Illya did not speak, Napoleon turned to look at him and finally he did start speaking.

“He said you will die, Napoleon.” His name sounded oddly right the way Illya pronounced it. “Said there is nothing I could do. I believed him, I thought you would die.”

“And yet here I am,” Napoleon joked, trying to lighten the situation up a bit, but Illya only frowned.

“Is no joking matter. You could have died because I was slow. I wasted one hour. Did nothing. I was sitting in harbour with Gaby and forgot about you. Is my fault that you’re here.” Illya’s voice broke.

It hurt Napoleon to see Illya so conflicted.

“It’s not your fault, Peril. Don’t blame yourself; it’s over now anyway.”

“Is not over. You have lasting damage, scars. You will never be the same.”

Napoleon winced. He was well aware of it, but getting told to his face, that he would be disfigured forever was something else, still. When Napoleon did not answer, Illya stayed quiet as well. There was nothing either of them could say.

Eventually Illya left. He quietly said goodbye and closed the door behind himself carefully.

A nurse brought Napoleon something to eat and he was just about to have some of his apple juice when the door opened again and another visitor entered the room.

“Napoleon Solo,” The man said. “I’m Alexander Waverly. I am with U.N.C.L.E.”

Napoleon nodded. Waverly obviously knew who he was.

“I’m very sorry for your injuries. Had I known that my orders would have this effect, I would have been more hesitant to give them.” He did not lie at least, like Gaby had about refusing her orders. Napoleon liked him.

In his clean accent, Waverly continued.

“However, I have a proposition to make. You are free to decline, but I would very much like you to hear me out.”

Napoleon nodded again.

“U.N.C.L.E. is always looking for new recruits. An intelligence service without a nation needs all possible resources to survive, including agents from all over the world. This is vital for international cases.” Waverly paused and stepped past Napoleon to look out the window.

“As I understand, you’re highly trained and experienced.”

“Yes,” answered Napoleon.

“Sir,” he added. It seemed like the right thing to do.

“You also speak multiple languages fluently, which makes you all the more valuable to U.N.C.L.E.” Waverly turned back to face Napoleon.

“What I’m proposing here is a chance to work with us. As I already said, you are of course free to decline the offer, but in case you recover well and choose to be active in the business in the future, you have the choice to join U.N.C.L.E. The CIA will drop their charges against you, the rest of your time will be disregarded.”

It sounded good, but Napoleon would need some time to think. He had not even considered his future. What would happen if he did not fully recover? What if there was lasting damage done to him that they had not even found yet?” It was a terrible thing to imagine, but Napoleon knew he had to deal with it sooner or later.

Just when Napoleon wanted to speak up and ask for some time to consider the deal, Waverly cleared his throat.

“Another thing,” he said. “Kuryakin already agreed to work with us and as a personal preference, seeing as the two of you seem to get along splendidly, I would like you to be a team.”

The case was decided in Napoleon’s mind there and then. There was no question; he would join U.N.C.L.E. if he recovered.

“Thank you,” he said. “It sounds like a good offer.”

And it was. Waverly left Napoleon to his thoughts after repeating his regret over the pain the American had to endure.

When the door fell shut, Napoleon went right back to wishing Illya was here with him, to talk about the future and about U.N.C.L.E.

Napoleon was aware, that they did not even know each other well enough to ask this of Illya, but he continued wishing all the same.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly less big boy, but still over 2000 words :D

Illya had a lot to process.

There was the fact that Napoleon was a shifter. Illya felt like there had been indications to this, starting with the fact, that Napoleon had not been completely freaked out when Illya had first shifted. Only a person who experienced it themselves, would not be too bothered about it. The fox form fit Napoleon unbelievably well. With his history in stealing and undoubtedly other criminal activities, it was fitting in that sense, but with Napoleon’s obvious intelligence and wit it was even less of a surprise that fate had chosen this form for him. Apart from that, Napoleon’s fox form was utterly endearing. Illya had never spared a thought about foxes, they had never been important in his life, but looking down onto the injured, passed out creature in his arms had opened his heart to the species and especially the individual in question. His fur was incredibly soft, the bushy tail curled almost all the way around Napoleon, as if he was trying to hide in it. Every now and then, Illya checked for a pulse and Napoleon would move, not much, but enough for Illya to notice how Napoleon’s fox form pressed closer to his chest. Illya shoved all feelings away in that moment, but eventually he would have to deal with them, he knew.

There were several feelings he had to deal with. Firstly protectiveness; rarely ever, Illya had ever felt this protective over anybody. But holding Napoleon had changed this rapidly. He knew the man needed to be kept safe, after what he had endured, there was no price too high for Illya if only he could keep Napoleon safe. When he came back to consciousness and shifted to his human form, Illya found himself hesitant to let go, but people were crowding him, said he needed to put Napoleon on the stretcher so they could look at his wounds. Napoleon had been watching Illya with pain in his eyes and tears rolling down his cheeks despite the obvious effort to keep them in, and Illya knew he needed to stay with him.

Then there was another feeling he had shoved to the side for too long; his attraction to Napoleon had evolved into something more over the time they had spent together. Of course the initial attraction was still there; Napoleon was stunning. But now Illya found himself imagining more than slamming Napoleon into a wall and kissing him until both their lips were bruised. In fact, he found that desire going back. In its stead, Illya wanted to go slowly, he wanted to take Napoleon’s face between his hands, watching as his eyes would go dark with the same desire Illya was feeling. Illya wanted to close the distance between them achingly slowly and enjoy every second of it, he wanted to tease Napoleon and he wanted the American to like it. He wanted to wake up next to him and kiss him good morning, he wanted to really know Napoleon and make him _his_.

Facing these feelings was hard, because the chances of anything like that happening, were so slim. Napoleon gave him no indication that he returned those feelings. In addition to this, Illya had never seriously considered a relationship with a man before, but now that Waverly had given him a way out of the KGB, a way to make his life truly his own, Illya found himself giving in to otherwise unrealistic fantasies. However, this led to the next problem. Illya had no guarantee that Napoleon would join U.N.C.L.E. after his recovery; he did not even know for sure if Napoleon would ever really recover. He had so many injuries, external and internal. Rudy had really planned to kill him and he had worked accordingly. The cuts and tears in Napoleon’s skin had been terrifying to look at; one could see frighteningly clearly, where Rudy had cut to induce pain and where he had cut to work further. The latter were clearer cuts, like the long one in his stomach. Illya shivered at the memory.

Rudy was locked away in prison now, after U.N.C.L.E. agents had found him tied up in his torture chamber, and he would remain there for the rest of his life. Accordingly with him in prison were Victoria and Alexander Vinciguerra. This was really the only positive outcome of the mission.

After watching over Napoleon at his bedside for nearly 48 hours, the doctor of the station, James, had sent Illya away. So, he had gone to the shabby hotel room he had rented upon his arrival in London.

After stabilising Napoleon, Waverly had thought it best to transfer him to the hospital at U.N.C.L.E.’s HQ, which had led Illya to London for the first time in his life. He was impressed by the city, it was beautiful, but very big and confusing. Illya found, that the cooler weather helped to soothe his nerves.

After collapsing on the bed, Illya had slept nearly a whole day. Now he found himself sitting in a café in the city, sipping a ridiculously expensive cappuccino.

His index finger was indeed broken, as the doctor had informed him when Illya had finally been convinced to leave Napoleon’s side. It was sticking out awkwardly from the cup, Illya was holding. In freeing and carrying Napoleon, he had worsened this injury, but the medical staff had managed to put a cast on it with good hopes that he would take away no lasting damage. The same had been said about the bites in his arms, left shoulder and ribcage. He would heal eventually.

Illya wanted to return to Napoleon, but he was not sure if he was welcome. The American had seemed off the last time Illya had seen him. Interpreting Napoleon correctly was not easy and Illya would need a lot more practice to master it, but he was willing to put in that work in order to understand the other agent. He was worth it to Illya.

The Russian drank up the rest of his coffee, before he got up, left a generous tip on the table and made his way to U.N.C.L.E.’s HQ.

The nurses already knew Illya and let him into the station without question. Doctor James walked past him in the hallway and nodded in greeting.

“He’s not in the best mood, maybe you can cheer him up.”

Illya raised an eyebrow and nodded back.

“Maybe.”

He knocked on the door to Napoleon’s room. A grumbled ‘yes’ was the answer. Hesitantly, Illya opened the door and peered inside the room. Napoleon was sitting in bed, newspaper open in his lap.

“Good morning,” Illya said.

“Morning,” Napoleon answered, barely looking up from the paper.

Illya sat down in the chair next to the bed in silence. When Napoleon seemingly refused to initiate any conversation, Illya took the task on himself.

“Have you met Waverly?”

Napoleon frowned.

“Yeah.” He did not seem in the mood for conversation.

“Did he tell you about U.N.C.L.E.?”

“He wants me as an agent.” Napoleon said. “To work with you.”

Finally he looked up and locked eyes with Illya. His expression was challenging Illya, chin raised, but is eyes were sad and troubled.

“Will you?” Illya asked breathlessly. He was well aware of how desperate he sounded. Napoleon remained quiet for several moments, as if contemplating his answer.

“I’d like to,” he finally said. His voice was soft; Illya swallowed his need to move closer, to touch, to kiss, to hold Napoleon. It was irrational.

“So would I,” he replied. Napoleon averted his gaze. Another pause followed.

“What if I don’t recover, what if I can’t go back in the field?” he asked. Illya’s breath hitched. He did not like Napoleon having these thoughts at all.

“I don’t know,” Illya admitted. He desperately wanted Napoleon to get well, to work more with him, to spend his free time with him. He wanted to stay close to him and not lose contact; something that would surely happen if they worked different jobs. If Napoleon did not recover, U.N.C.L.E. could not take away the five years he still owed the CIA and they would likely let him rot away in prison. If he did not recover, Illya was really clueless as to what would happen to him. It made him uncomfortable.

“Me neither. I’d need to run from Sanders, he’s gonna chase me for the rest in my life if I don’t wait off my jail time for five more years. I couldn’t keep a job, hell, I couldn’t even sell myself, nobody would want me with all these scars. I have no future if I don’t get back on my feet.” Napoleon sounded panicked, the same desperation Illya was feeling, strained Napoleon’s voice.

“Why do you think about this?” Illya asked him.

“Because I have to, Illya. It’s my life, I have to figure out what to do now that you saved me. I’m alive, thanks to you but with nowhere to go, no prospects. The only option I have depends on extreme luck and circumstances I have little to no influence on, of course I think about this!” Illya saw him cramping his right hand into a tight fist.

“Prostitution,” he said. “Why do you think about that?”

Napoleon did not answer. The only reaction to Illya’s question was a look in his direction, that was both scared and incredibly stubborn. Napoleon would not say anything.

“Sorry.” Illya said.

They remained quiet for some time. Napoleon stared at the paper again, but Illya watched him; his eyes were not moving. He was not reading; instead he merely stared at the letters, avoiding Illya.

“You are wrong,” he eventually said. Napoleon looked up.

“Scars don’t matter. You look good with scars or without. Is not important.”

Napoleon just looked at him, disbelief written all over his face.

“And what would you know about looks?” Napoleon asked. “Dressing like you do, you clearly don’t have the best taste.”

The words hit Illya hard. Not only was Napoleon insulting Illya, but he was also insulting himself.

Napoleon was going against Illya’s words, truly believing that the scars, he had because of intense torture, made him undesirable. If anything it was the other way round. The scars would be a reminder of how strong Napoleon truly was.

“I’m just gonna live out my life as a fox, eating trash and I’ll probably die of rabies.” Napoleon mumbled.

Illya dearly hoped that he was joking. He frowned; Napoleon’s answering grin reassured him a bit. The man was still insufferable, less than a week after he almost died.

“Can you shift?” Napoleon asked suddenly and unexpectedly.

Illya blinked in confusion.

“Yes,” he replied. Of course he could.

“Now, I meant. They don’t allow me to shift until I’m halfway healed but I wanna. I’m itching to shift and just curl up, I don’t wanna lie on my back forever, Illya,” Napoleon whined. Illya still saw little sense in shifting.

“Why should I shift?” he asked. Napoleon looked at him with yearning his his eyes.

“I don’t know, it might make me feel better. Can I –” he paused and slightly extended his right arm. “Can I pet you?”

The question was unexpected and Illya saw how uncomfortable Napoleon was, asking it. He nodded. At the same time he felt bad. It was like a wish coming true for him, he would get more out of this than Napoleon himself knew he was giving. It gave the whole thing bitter taste to it. Without another word, he shifted nonetheless.

The dizziness coursing through him, had him laying his head onto the side of the bed. After a moment he opened his eyes to look at Napoleon. His expression was one of fondness, a small smile spreading on his lips. His hand lightly brushed the soft fur on Illya’s snout, then it wandered further up, between his eyes, before he started to rub his skull, massaging circles into Illya’s skin.

Napoleon’s touch was soothing, Illya felt his hand trembling just the slightest bit, but when he closed his eyes and leaned into Napoleon’s caresses, his fingers became more steady, there was a certain rhythm to his movements.

Illya had never experienced this. Once, years and years ago, his mother had tried to pet him, but Illya had not responded well. The touch had been too much; the first few years Illya had not been able to stand being touched in his polar bear form at all. It made Napoleon’s gestures all the more special. It was a show of trust for both of them and Illya sensed that they both knew it.

He began to doze off to the feeling of Napoleon’s fingers massaging his skull in even movements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok ugh,,,, just getting this out here. The reason why I'm working this fic so fast is because I'm so incredibly bad at WIPs. I tend to abandon longer works. And since I don't wanna do that with this one, I gotta power through. I'm absolutely sleep deprived, because I'm on holiday and we're doing stuff all day (be it with friends or my fam) so my main writing hours are 9 PM to 2 AM. At this point I'm being kept alive by the toxic powers of Irn Bru and the music of Electric Light Orchestra and the Traveling Wilburys. (so if you're wondering what my mind sounds like, just listen to like ELO's 4th to 10th albums and everything by the Traveling Wilburys.) I'm so done with everything, this fic has eaten my life but I can't stop :))   
> This has been a PSA. Hope you enjoyed the chapter lol <3
> 
> P.S.: This chapter marks 1 week of working on this, meaning I wrote over 17000 words in 7 days! :D


	9. Chapter 9

Napoleon was sitting up in bed, contemplating life.

It was already an achievement for him to be sitting up. Four days after being sliced open, one did not usually sit up, but Napoleon was stubborn and there was only so much the doctor could do if Napoleon moved on his own. He just could not stand lying on his back any longer.

Napoleon needed action in his life; the worst thing that could happen to him was being forced to lie still for days and days. It was terrible. His brain needed stimulation and his body needed movement.

The only thing his brain had to entertain itself, was reading the paper and thinking about his likely miserable future and the only thing his body could do was sit up and move his legs under the blanket.

Napoleon sighed and looked down at his hand. He had not moved in some time, and it was still resting at the back of Illya’s head.

His large polar bear form was impressive. Napoleon adored it; as much as he loved his own fox form and the comfort and abilities it gave him, sometimes he wished to be a larger animal. Something like the polar bear Illya had.

The Russian seemed to be asleep, his eyes were tightly shut and Napoleon saw his breaths coming regularly.

The American was well aware what this meant. Usually Shifters were hesitant being touched in their animal form, even if they were completely fine with it in their human form.  Napoleon knew it was like that for himself.

He knew he liked touch, required it and sought it out specifically. If he went without somebody touching him for too long, he became grumpy; even if it was only hugs and the likes, it was enough for him. His fox form however recoiled at any touch he did not initiate himself. His worst experiences with this, dated from when the CIA had first gotten him into their custody. There had been so much touching from scientists, behavioural experts and higher-ups, Napoleon could barely stand it. Shifting had been exhausting and he preferred the safety of his fur to his human form so he had endured it.

It had been awful and he did not believe that Illya had fared much better in his experiences with people touching his bear form.

Napoleon knew what a big show of trust it was for Illya not only to shift at Napoleon’s demand but to let him touch his bear form for an extended time.

Napoleon had tried to be gentle and Illya had appreciated it. The biggest honour however was the state Illya was currently in. Eyes shut, one paw resting next to his head on the bed, Illya was still asleep. He trusted Napoleon enough to sleep in his presence. And for some reason it made Napoleon unbelievably happy. He gently started to move his hand again, rubbing behind Illya’s ears. They moved at his touch, but Illya’s breaths came as steady as before.

Softly petting the giant bear next to him, Napoleon returned to reading the paper.

They had made the front page. It did not happen often that a mission was successful and it was still all over the news. Usually, keeping a low profile and preventing front page news from happening, was the key to a successful mission, but this time, somehow everything had worked out, albeit with a lot of public attention.

None of that, however, had come from Napoleon. While Gaby, the U.N.C.L.E. agents, and Illya had all done their jobs to prevent nuclear bombs from falling into the wrong hands, all Napoleon had managed to do, was fall into those wrong hands and be tortured so he would be unfit for duty for months at least.

Napoleon let his head fall back and closed his eyes. He was close to freaking out, his bad mood was still there, hanging over him like a storm cloud, but Illya’s presence, even in deep slumber, managed to keep it at bay.

A slight knock came at the door and a moment later a nurse came in with his dinner. When she saw Illya, she let out a strangled noise as if torn between screaming and staying dead silent, so as not to wake the giant bear.

Illya stirred and pulled back his hand.

“He’s well behaved,” he said, smiling as Illya opened his dark eyes.

Napoleon looked back over to the nurse. Her eyes stood wide open and she hastily put the tray down next to the bed, before she clasped her hand over her mouth. Illya noticed how she looked, because in a flurry, he shifted back.

He still looked sleepy, his eyes droopy and facial expression less hardened, less controlled than usual.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was rough; it was attractive and Napoleon had to hold back from biting his lip like a horny school girl.

The nurse took a deep breath, exhaled, then took another, and finally spoke.

“It’s okay.” After a second she added, “I think we might need some door signs.” She turned to leave. “’Shifter in here; watch out’… Have a nice evening.”

With that, she closed the door behind herself.

Napoleon looked at Illya. The Russian was running a hand through his hair and looked at Napoleon, face slightly flushed. Napoleon grinned. Illya looked away quickly and blushed even more. He was adorable.

Seeing him like this immediately turned Napoleon’s mood to the better. It was the glee of mocking this seemingly untouchable mountain of a man, paired with the adoration Napoleon felt at his reactions.

Illya slumped back down into the chair, while Napoleon grabbed the tray with his food. It was nothing special but at the sight of the potatoes and mixed vegetables, Napoleon’s stomach grumbled. He was really hungry; hopefully it was a sign that he was getting better. He really wanted to; he wanted to work with Illya again, but more than work with him, he wanted to stay with him. He could not do that in a prison cell in the US. So he had no other option but to get better.

Illya was watching him closely; Napoleon was well aware of his still slightly dazed stare, but he did not mind. It was not uncomfortable.

“I can’t believe, you let me pet you,” Napoleon said after he had finished his food and set the tray aside again. Illya had stayed quiet; only looked at him and looked away whenever Napoleon looked in his general direction.

Illya looked somewhere at the wall behind Napoleon.

“Hmm,” he grumbled. Napoleon grinned.

“You liked it didn’t you.”

Illya’s eyes snapped to the side to meet Napoleon’s. The Russian was looking at him as if contemplating if Napoleon was making fun of him or not. So he cleared it up.  
“I liked it. It’s an honour; thank you for letting me.”

“Of course,” Illya replied.

“I don’t like most people touching my fox form.” Napoleon started. It was nothing he had ever talked about; he was barely used to talking about his being a Shifter at all. “It creeps me out, it’s just too much and I feel so small and unimportant. People touching me with their large hands, stronger than me, so much stronger. It’s terrible.”

Illya’s breath hitched. He stayed silent for a moment.

“I don’t like touches. People have dirty hands, make me uncomfortable. Is not good being touched, I react differently as bear. And I don’t trust them.” Illya visibly cringed.

Napoleon nodded. Then it sank in; Illya really trusted him. Fondness shot through him and he smiled when he answered.

“You trust me enough.” It was not a question, because Illya had already proved it.

The Russian nodded. Napoleon felt like there was something between them, that either of them could bring up. Both of them knew it, but they remained silent in fear of ruining a peaceful moment.

Napoleon let his eyes wander over Illya’s form and wondered how he had come to this point.

He had a ridiculously large crush on the man and usually he would have acted on it by now, but the whole situation was different from his usual crushes. For one thing, Illya was Illya. He was no nameless man, pretty enough for Napoleon to fuck and leave behind; this was usually how Napoleon’s crushes on men played out. No, Illya had a name, Illya had a face – what a gorgeous face – and Illya had more significance in Napoleon’s life than all those nameless one-night-stands thrown together.

Then there was the fact that Napoleon was quite literally physically disabled and thus completely unable to do more than sit up in a manoeuvre that cost him at least five whole minutes. He could not simply use his bodily charms to get Illya to act on his own, complementary feelings. All in all he could do very little except maybe extend a hand. It was unnerving, but the thing that threw him off his concept was that he did not necessarily want to act first. He was bad with relationships. The last one he had tried to handle, had ended badly, because he had been away too much; the connection they had had, vanished just as quickly as it had started. Napoleon felt like he might mess up the whole relationship with Illya before it even started. Because that was what Napoleon wanted; something more long-term, something secure, something serious. Despite only knowing him for little more than two weeks, Illya gave him a sense of protection and mutual attraction had pretty much been there from day one as far as Napoleon could say.

The main reason Napoleon had not yet acted on his feelings, was that Illya deserved better than Napoleon making an inappropriate move on him. Illya deserved to be courted, to be taken on dates, he deserved Napoleon’s whole attention and his focus, his entire being.

Napoleon’s entire being was lying in a hospital bed nearly unable to move, and so he felt utterly unworthy to even speak to Illya about the matter.

It was not like him to be so held back and yet here he was, unable to make conversation with only one thing on his mind that he did not want to talk about.

Napoleon only realised just how long they had sat there in silence when Illya cleared his throat.

“I should go.” The look in his eyes told Napoleon that he did not want to, that the unspoken thing they both knew about was still on his mind, but it did not help.

Napoleon smiled at him.

“Goodnight,” he said. Illya hesitated at the door, so Napoleon used the moment to continue. “Will you be back?”

Illya did not turn around, and just like that Napoleon feared he might have gone too far with one simple sentence. Was he too desperate, too clingy?

“See you tomorrow, Cowboy,” Illya said and Napoleon could hear the smile in his voice.

Never before had Napoleon had such an irrational desire as in that moment; he wanted to hold that sentence, hug it to his bruised, cut-open chest and let it heal him. Envisioning this, it did not hurt to see Illya leave.

Napoleon slept well that night.

The next day started with another visit from Gaby.

Her expression clearly showed the guilt she was feeling. It became less likely by the second, that her feelings were insincere.

“Waverly is sending me on my first solo mission.” Napoleon smiled at the unintended pun.

“I just wanted to pop by and wish you all the best. I’ll likely be gone for a few weeks, and I’d love to see you up and walking when I get back.”

Napoleon nodded.

“I’d love that. Honestly, I don’t think I can sit here any longer. And the doctors don’t even _want_ me sitting up. They say I should be lying down for another week, but I’m itching to get out of this bed, I need to move, I want to go on a run.” Napoleon was well aware of how whiney he sounded, but he did not mind. He was achieving his goal. Relief spread across Gaby’s face. She was realising that Napoleon held no grudge against her specifically; sure, he was still angry at how it had played out, but Gaby had her role in it like everybody else. She was also the one who finally arrested her own Uncle and even though Napoleon was well aware, too well aware of what an utter tyrant the man was, he was still her family; it could not have been that easy.

“I’m so sorry,” Gaby said, seemingly out of context, but Napoleon understood.

“It’s okay, Gaby… or should I say chop-shop girl,” he grinned at her. Hesitantly, she smiled back.

“Both work for me.” She clasped a hand over Napoleon’s.

“You’re a fighter, Solo. If anybody can get back on their feet after this, it’s you. And I’m sure, Illya will help you and be there for you. He cares about you so much.” Gaby’s voice was sincere. It seemed as if she magically knew the right things to tell him.

“I know,” Napoleon said; it was the truth. He was fairly sure Illya also cared in the right way, but it was a tad too uncertain to act on it and Napoleon hated that bit of doubt more than he could admit.

“Waverly gave him two weeks off,” Gaby said. “He’ll have plenty of time for you.”

“Thank you.”

Gaby laughed. “You don’t need to thank me. But I hope you make the best of your two weeks.”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow and sighed. “I’ll try.”

Gaby let go off his hand and leaned in. She pushed his hair from his forehead and pressed a soft kiss there. It felt like a blessing to Napoleon.

“Get well quickly,” she said as a goodbye.

“Good luck on your mission,” Napoleon replied. And just like that, she was gone. Napoleon felt like weight was lifted off him. He had really not wanted to lose her as a friend.

Shortly after Gaby left, Doctor James came in to change his bandages. Napoleon was on a lot of painkillers but he still cringed at the pulls of stinging pain that shot through him when James inadvertently touched his injuries. The torn cuts in his chest had taken between seven and ten stitches each, they were not pretty, but they would heal in time. They were clean now and would likely heal quite quickly. However, the scars would last. Of course Napoleon’s life up to that point had not left him without marks of struggle, other scars, some stitched together badly by himself, but none were as bad as the wounds he had now, none as obvious. He looked terrible.

Once again Napoleon found himself thinking about the X-Men. Healing powers would be great now. But alas, he was stuck in a body that could merely shift into a fox and he was not even allowed to do that right now. It was unnerving.

Looking down at the giant cut on his stomach, made Napoleon nauseous. The skin around it was yellow, green, blue, stained with bruises and the dozens of stitches made it look brutal. It was not a nice wound.

Napoleon leaned his head back against his pillow and closed his eyes.

When he was done, the doctor asked if Napoleon was feeling alright and he nodded but did not open his eyes. He heard the door open and close again.

“Cowboy?”

Napoleon hummed a sound in acknowledgement.

“Are you alright?” Illya asked.

“Yeah,” Napoleon breathed out, but he was not. He was injured, he was disfigured, ugly, and even though he knew he should be thankful for being alive at all, it frightened him that he might not be wanted anymore with his flaws and blemishes.

Napoleon heard Illya sitting down in the chair next to his bed. Then, with a feathery soft touch, the Russian’s fingers traced over the back of Napoleon’s hand. Turning his hand around, so that it was lying next to him palm up, was an almost involuntary movement, an invitation of sorts.

Illya took it; slowly, he intertwined their fingers. Napoleon swallowed. This was what he wanted and apparently Illya did, too.

The Russian gently squeezed Napoleon’s hand. When the latter opened his eyes, Illya was looking at him earnestly; his eyes as hopeful as Napoleon’s soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stayed at home today to relax and write and what I did was record a cover of a part of an ELO song so I'm still only finished at 10 PM but at least it's not 2 am yay... Hope you liked it :) The next chapters will focus more on their developing relationship, and I'll try to make it good... Do y'all want some smut?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more fluff, yeee!!

The only reason why Illya allowed himself to stare, was that Napoleon would not notice. The other man had his eyes closed, looked relaxed, but Illya could practically feel the nausea and anxiety, he had been feeling at least ever since Illya had entered the room. He wanted to help, wanted to make Napoleon feel better, but he did not know how.

Staring at him, the Russian noticed how beautiful Napoleon was, too beautiful for Illya to process; Illya was so lost.

Napoleon had liked touching him, so Illya thought he would try that. Maybe it would help. But instead of shifting like last time, Illya extended a hand. He let two fingers ghost over the back of Napoleon’s own. The reaction was immediate and exactly right.

Napoleon’s gasp was so small, that Illya nearly missed it and even though his eyes remained closed, his expression was surprised, but pleasantly so. Napoleon turned his hand around and Illya knew, that he was on the right track. He intertwined their fingers gently.

Napoleon’s hand, while surely as strong as Illya’s own, was surprisingly soft. He supposed that it was because of gentle soaps and moisturisers that Illya would never use himself. He gave that hand a gentle squeeze, which Napoleon returned. A small smile appeared on his lips and at once tension he had not even been aware of, drained from Illya; anxieties over the nature of their relationship vanished and what was left, was happiness and contentment.

Of course Illya had realised within the last days, that something was happening between them, but Napoleon had been unconscious for a lot of the time and not in the best of moods in the remaining time. However, when he had asked to pet Illya, something had quite literally shifted in their relationship; a new dynamic had begun to develop and now Illya was sure of where it was leading. Maybe his dreams and wishes to be with Napoleon would come true after all.

Next to him, Napoleon stirred. He opened his eyes and looked at him. Illya did nothing but look back, but for some reason it seemed to be enough for Napoleon because an expression of satisfaction came over his face.

It was in this moment, that Illya realised that this was more than attraction or mere protectiveness; he was in love.

For a moment, he panicked, because he had never experienced this before. He had never wanted to hold onto somebody forever, but then he remembered a lesson he had learned long ago. It had gotten him through many of his hardest days: Looking at situations short-term made them less complicated. It opened up the possibility to think about details that would help with figuring out a clear way. So, Illya did just that. The short-term would be to help Napoleon. If the other man even returned his feelings, this thing would go nowhere if Napoleon was not at ease and happy. And Illya knew how unhappy Napoleon really was, not allowed to shift, or even sit up, not to speak of walking or going back to work.

No, Napoleon was not well and Illya’s first job was to do everything he could to change that. He had two weeks before Waverly would first have the opportunity to send Illya on a mission with U.N.C.L.E., maybe even longer because it was difficult to plan those missions with weeks to go until the start.

The point was, that Illya had at least fourteen days to make Napoleon feel better.

For now, Napoleon seemed content. He had closed his eyes again; How much Illya would give to know what he was thinking about.

“How did you know?” Napoleon asked eventually.

“What?” Illya asked.

“That I want… this,” Napoleon answered after a short pause. He seemed insecure, but Illya did not know why; after all, with everything he knew about Napoleon, the man was not shy at all. Conversations like this should not be making him uncomfortable. And yet here they were and to his surprise it was Illya who felt confident.

“I thought… you like touch. You liked touching yesterday. Was good, calmed you down. I felt it.”

Napoleon groaned. “Am I really that desperate?”

“You are not desperate for wanting to touch somebody, Cowboy. Don’t be silly. If it helps, I am here for you.”

Napoleon looked at him out of the corners of his eyes. Illya saw a smile there, that was not visible on the rest of his face.

“Is not only that,” Illya continued, because he wanted more. He wanted more of Napoleon’s smile and of the soft look of something like affection in his eyes. He wanted more of a happy Napoleon and he wanted to be the direct cause of it.

“I would not… allow this if I did not like it myself.” He got what he wanted. Napoleon’s smile spread to his whole face.

“You’re going soft, Peril?” he asked. Illya frowned; he knew it was a joke, but it hit quite close to home. He had asked himself the same thing. These feelings for Napoleon were nothing like he had ever experienced and were especially worrying because until now he had always successfully pushed away any similar feelings. Now he could not.

Rationally, Illya knew that there was nothing bad about being in love or anything like it, but years of suppressing any emotions that could be used against him had taken a toll on him. He was comfortable with Napoleon, which made his situation new to him, unexpected and yet so welcome.

“Would that be bad?” he asked. He needed to know what Napoleon was thinking and again he wished he could read his thoughts.

“No,” Napoleon said. “I just – if it’s because of me, don’t change for me, Peril. You don’t have to.” He sounded genuinely concerned.

“Don’t worry, Napoleon.”  Illya knew that if he was really changing it was not to fulfil somebody’s expectations.

Napoleon squeezed his hand again; Illya knew he understood.

It was a long way until Napoleon got better. Gradually his condition got better and better, and with that, his mood improved as well.

Illya noticed every change. The first time Napoleon was not in bed when Illya came to visit, he had to look twice, because it was eight days after the end of the mission and he was not supposed to be out of bed at all.

However, Napoleon, stubborn as he was, was standing at the window looking outside.

“Cowboy?” Napoleon spun around too fast for Illya’s liking, but just as he wanted to say something, criticise his being out of bed and moving around so much, he saw Napoleon’s expression. He looked absolutely gleeful, grinning at Illya, his eyes wide with joy and suddenly the Russian did not have it in him to be angry at all. All he managed to do was slightly shake his head.

“You are insufferable,” he said with his own responding smile. Napoleon started walking. It was slow and he looked ridiculous in his hospital gown, but Illya found it utterly endearing. He offered Napoleon an arm once he had walked over to him, but the American did not take it. Instead he walked even closer and stepped right into Illya’s comfort zone.

The hug was unexpected but more than welcome, Napoleon clung to Illya like a koala, holding him close, his arms wrapped around Illya’s shoulders.

Illya brought his own arms up around Npoleon’s back, careful not to press any more than Napoleon was leaning into him of his own volition. After all he was still injured and Illya could not take that lightly. When he felt Napoleon’s head on his shoulder and his breath against his neck, his last resolve crumbled and he tightened his arms around Napoleon just a bit.

“I missed you,” Napoleon whispered.

A warm feeling spread in Illya’s chest.

“You’ve been here every day, but I’ve missed you still. I wanna… I wanna get to know you better. I wanna go on missions with you and after that go home with you.” He paused. “Am I being clingy again?” he added, lifting his head up to look at Illya.

“Yes,” the latter replied. “But is good. Very like you, Cowboy.”

He did not even bother to hide the sarcastic undertone in his voice and Napoleon boxed him in the chest with his good hand for it. Then he made his way back to bed.

No ten seconds later a nurse came in to check up on him; the man really was sneaky. He was also clever enough to know how far he could take his breaking the rules; he was well aware that Illya would never tell the staff what Napoleon really got up to.

After the nurse left again, Napoleon grinned at Illya with bared teeth and excitement in his eyes.

“They told me it’s another week until I’m allowed to shift,” he said and did not elaborate. Illya understood him perfectly.

“No. I won’t allow it. You will not shift until they clear you.” The second he said it, Illya knew that Napoleon would not listen to him; there was no chance of that happening, and so, under the pressure of the ever-growing smile that graced Napoleon’s smug expression, he corrected himself.

“Don’t shift until Friday. And only when I’m here.” Napoleon frowned at him. Friday was four days away and he clearly did not like this.

“Deal,” he said eventually and Illya breathed a bit easier. One day, Napoleon would be the death of him. There was just so much to handle with him.

But Illya would not have it any other way. He had known what he was getting into from the very start.

Friday rolled around faster than Illya was ready for. He was anxious for all of Thursday; the thought of Napoleon shifting had a bad connotation. Images of the injured fox bleeding all over Illya appeared before his eyes, he constantly thought about the small and fragile body lying on the seat of the electric chair completely passed out from unbelievable pain. He thought about how he had seen the dark eyes open for the first time and they had been filled with terror and pain greater than Illya could describe. He thought about the moment the fox became an important part of his life and only found bad feelings attached to it.

Needless to say, when Illya arrived at U.N.C.L.E.’s HQ that day, he was a bundle of nerves, barely wrapped up in the appearance of Illya Kuryakin.

Before he got the chance to open the door to Napoleon’s room, Doctor James exited and stopped him in the hallway.

“Something’s got him all excited. He’s up to something but I’m not sure what, so keep an eye out for that,” he said before he patted Illya on the shoulder and left down the hallway to check up on the next patient.

Illya entered the room and was met with Napoleon’s smug grin.

“Doctor knows you plan to do something,” Illya uttered instead of a greeting. Napoleon did not look like it particularly bothered him.

“Doesn’t matter, Peril!,” he said. “Today’s the day, and now that you’re here I can’t wait to get out of this skin.”

Napoleon was behaving like a kid on Christmas morning. It was ridiculous and endearing at the same time; Illya tried to frown but failed to do even that, because Napoleon’s good mood was contagious. He sat down at the foot of the bed.

“You walk around room twice to get circulation going. And so I see if you are fit,” he said. When Napoleon pouted, he knit his eyebrows together.

“Alright,” Napoleon said. “No problem.”

He got up, slowly but steadily and walked around the room. Illya watched every step carefully, but Napoleon seemed to be doing well. By now his bandages were smaller, easily kept under a t-shirt, so Napoleon was wearing an U.N.C.L.E. issued white shirt and loose pyjama bottoms. Even in those clothes he looked amazing; Illya could not understand how it worked, but Napoleon had a way to make anything look good on him.

“Okay,” he said, when Napoleon was back at the bed and without even a moment’s hesitance, Napoleon shifted. Illya heard claws quietly clicking against the hospital floor, as the fox took off. There was not much to see in the room, that Napoleon had likely not already looked at hundreds of times in the days he had been here, but his fox form seemed interested in everything nonetheless. After a few minutes of exploring and apparently finding nothing of interest to him, Napoleon returned to Illya. He tried to jump onto the bed, but failed and instead of trying again and needlessly extorting his still healing body, Napoleon looked at Illya with the most pleading eyes the Russian had ever seen. How could he resist?

Careful not to hurt Napoleon, he lifted him up, one hand under his chest, the other beneath his thighs. Napoleon walked around on the sheets for a moment, then leapt and bounced once, before that activity seemed to become uninteresting as well. Instead he looked at Illya for several moments.

He was still sitting on the bed, easy for Napoleon to reach so it did not take much for him to walk from the mattress straight onto Illya’s lap. He sat down and immediately, Illya’s hands came up to his chest to stabilise him. Beneath his fingers he could feel the healing wounds, so he pulled back a bit and Napoleon squirmed a bit more, before he settled and laid down right across Illya’s thighs. For a moment he kept his eyes closed.

Napoleon truly was the prettiest being on the planet, Illya decided, be it in his human or animal form. Then Napoleon opened his eyes again and turned his head to look at Illya expectantly. When this got him no immediate response, Napoleon nudged at Illya’s hand with his nose.

Almost instinctively, Illya began massaging his head, caressing the fur around his ears and stroking his hands in long lines down Napoleon’s back. His eyes closed again and Illya could almost feel the calm satisfaction radiating off Napoleon.

They remained like this for most of the afternoon; both of them enjoyed the simple being together. Illya revelled in the trust Napoleon showed him and Napoleon quite obviously enjoyed being back in his fox form. The smile that spread on Illya’s lips after a few minutes, stayed for considerably longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing their animal forms so much ugh. I think I have four more chapters planned (including some smut), and I hope I can stick to that plan :D


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey bitches. No chapter yesterday, but this I wrote in like 2 hours so .........

Napoleon was pretty sure he was falling in love with Illya. At least, he was unreasonably giddy when the other man was there, or when Napoleon only thought of him. And he actually enjoyed being touched by him. Holding Illa’s hand was a familiar sensation by now, and during the time he had been mostly bed-bound, Napoleon had found himself realising that he would not mind feeling these hands on him when he was in his fox form.

It was a weird sensation; Napoleon could not quite explain it, but he wanted more of Illya.

The only problem was, that he was so bad at asking for more. Illya was already giving so much.

He was giving all of his time for Napoleon. As far as he knew, Illya got up, got a cheap croissant for breakfast and came straight to the hospital where he was allowed to stay with Napoleon all day before about 8PM at which point he left, got his own dinner, went to sleep in his hotel room until he woke up the following morning to start the same routine again.

Simply spending time with Illya was a huge influence on Napoleon’s mood, because not only did he have the aforementioned feelings about the other spy, but Illya also gave Napoleon’s mind some much needed stimulation. Throwing snarky comments back and forth between them, sassing each other with that ever-present glint of humour in their eyes was just as great as having earnest conversations about missions and work experience with him.

In addition to that, Napoleon got too much satisfaction from exasperating Illya; walking around the room had been bad enough in Illya’s opinion but shifting really had him on edge, even though he pretended, it was okay. Napoleon sensed his held-back stance.

However, Illya gave Napoleon way more than only his time. There was patience when Napoleon was telling him about an earlier mission and extended it into too much details, or when he, slowly but surely made his way to the toilets down the hallway and left Illya alone for minutes, because everything was complicated with half a body full of stitches, broken ribs and a broken arm. There was patience when Napoleon tried to convince him that jumping out of the window in his fox form would be totally safe, even though Illya did not believe a single word, he still listened and indulged Napoleon with his slightly judging but affectionate smile.

And there was another thing Illya gave Napoleon: Affection.

Napoleon loved being on the receiving end of this; Illya was so gentle with him. Just as with the patience, Illya’s affection seemed indefinite, it seemed never-ending and Napoleon loved it. When he was in his fox form for the first time, lying on Illya’s lap, enjoying every second of Illya’s hand moving across his back or his fingers massaging the top of his head, Napoleon was somehow clearly aware that Illya was holding back, because he did not want to hurt Napoleon; he was afraid to go too far, and to Napoleon this realisation was the moment he understood why it mattered so much that Illya cared. He was in love with him.

It was something completely new.

And in theory it was great; Napoleon liked the attention and affection, but there was one thing he did not like at all.

Napoleon wanted Illya; he wanted him so much and in all ways possible. It was like an obsession and one that Napoleon only barely managed to suppress from bubbling up and ruin everything. He wanted Illya to hold him and never let go, wanted the man to kiss him as if the world was ending, but more than that, he wanted to know that Illya wanted him too. He wanted Illya to tell him, wanted him to make Napoleon believe his words. But Napoleon was disfigured, he was ugly and would never be the same as before. He hated his healing wounds, hated the pain they still brought him even though he did not let it show. He hated the way his stomach felt as if it was being ripped open every time he shifted and he hated the way his chest looked, all covered in stitches.

Napoleon hated the cast on his arm, that prevented him from properly holding Illya’s hand between both of his, he hated the cracked ribs, that sent shocks of pain through him every time he so much as laughed. Napoleon absolutely hated everything about himself and that, too was a remarkably new situation.

Before, Napoleon had loved the way he looked and it was not just like that, but Napoleon actively worked to get to that level. He knew he had the potential to look absolutely stunning and he took every necessary step to get there. It helped him both in his job and in his personal life. With the injuries being as they were, two weeks after the end of the mission, the doctors were saying his chances to return to his job were pretty good. But Napoleon knew a lot would change even if he would return.

He had dealt with a cracked rib before; Napoleon had hated every second of it. Even things that he had not thought possible to hurt him, had impossibly still hurt him. With several broken ones, it would take a considerably longer time to heal, as well as hurt a lot more.

With the time it would take for the rips in his chest to heal, Napoleon would not be allowed to seriously work out for weeks yet, not to speak of the slash through his stomach. It was awful, because Napoleon knew the amount of time it would take him to get back on track. He shuddered at the thought.

And even if he ever got to that level of fitness again, the marks would stay and they would not be pretty. Napoleon highly doubted that Illya wanted that. If Napoleon had any chance with Illya it would have been before the mission, when he had looked like a man and not like Frankenstein’s monster.

Napoleon woke up to these thoughts and knew the day was going to be miserable, no matter what could possibly happen. If he started off with this mindset, there was no hope in expecting it to get better.

Doctor James came in after he knocked quietly on the door and Napoleon pulled his shirt over his head. That feat alone took him nearly a minute because for one thing one of his arms was basically useless and for another, he could not strain most of his upper body too much at a time.

But he insisted on doing it himself. Indulging in the help of others would not get him anywhere in the long run. James had sighed in defeat when Napoleon had told him exactly that, but he had not protested.

“Morning, Mr Solo,” he said while he put down fresh bandages on the night stand and pulled the chair closer.

“Mornin’,” Napoleon mumbled and leaned back.

“Let’s see how you’re doing.” Napoleon nodded.

Slowly, the doctor pulled away the plasters that were keeping the bandages in place, to reveal the cuts in Napoleon’s chest.

“They’re healing well. I’m glad, because when you were brought in, they weren’t clean at all. The paramedics just focused on the big cut. You should be good, though. The stitches can come out in about a week.”

Carefully, he put fresh bandages on the cuts.

“Do your ribs sting when you breathe?” he asked.

“No,” Napoleon replied truthfully.

“When you move?”

“A bit. Nothing I can’t handle.” Doctor James looked at Napoleon disapprovingly. Then he sighed.

“Just don’t make yourself suffer unnecessarily. Tell somebody the second you can’t handle something. And if it’s only your boyfriend.”

Napoleon’s heart nearly stopped.

“He’s not my… that,” he said, but James did not even seem to hear him.

It had felt so right hearing Illya being referred to as his boyfriend and at the same time it had sent a massive wave of yearning through Napoleon’s entire body.

The doctor started to peel away the bandage from Napoleon’s stomach when Napoleon’s yearning was being answered by some higher power in the completely wrong way.

A knock came on the door and since usually, there was nobody with Napoleon, Illya came right into the room.

“Speak of the devil,” James muttered under his breath and Napoleon just barely suppressed rolling his eyes. But then, he tensed up because Illya was getting a frighteningly close look at his wounds and it did not sit well with Napoleon at all.

James put a hand at his hip and sternly said, “Relax.” It was an order and Napoleon obeyed it immediately, but his eyes flickered over to Illya. He was still standing by the door, hands in the pockets of his jacket, staring at Napoleon. His eyes were wide and it was not the adoring-wide or the surprised-wide. It was the shocked-wide; the exact expression Napoleon did not want to see on Illya’s face when he was looking at him.

When Napoleon had thought he had woken up with a bad mood he had not thought it possible that it would go even lower, but now here he was and his mood had just plummeted to its gruesome death at the bottom of a pit.

Looking back down at his stomach, Napoleon felt tears gather in his eyes; it looked worse even than it felt. The bruises were even wider-spread than in the beginning and the stitches stood in terrible contrast to his skin.

He blinked away the tears and took a deep breath. James pressed into the skin around the cut.

“Does this hurt?” he asked. Napoleon shook his head.

“Okay. Just making sure there aren’t any internal injuries we didn’t notice.”

He bandaged up the wound again with a few practiced moves and handed Napoleon a fresh shirt. As hastily as possible, he pulled it on.

“See you in two days. If everything is okay by then, we can talk about you going home.”

James nodded to Illya once and then left them.

The room was completely silent. Illya was still staring at him pretty much with the same expression and it was starting to freak Napoleon out.

When Illya stood there for another minute, he snapped.

“How about you just leave if you find me so disgusting that you can just stare from the other side of the room.” It was too much.

Illya’s eyes snapped to Napoleon’s face and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but Napoleon cut him off before he could start.

“No. I’m serious, I don’t know what you’re thinking and I don’t really care if I’m being completely honest, but you’re being rude and I know I’m ugly and I look like Frankenstein’s monster even without your stares and judgement.” Napoleon felt tears clogging up his throat ´, but he swallowed them down.

“Just go,” he finished.

But all Illya did, was stand still. Then he took a step forward and then another and another until he was standing at the side of Napoleon’s bed.

“I said ‘go’,” said Napoleon, but his voice was strained and weak.

“No.” Illya responded. His eyes were filled with conflicting emotions, that Napoleon did not understand. He remained quiet.

“I won’t go when you tell me. I stay,” Illya continued. “You are strong, Cowboy. I didn’t _stare_ because you’re ugly. It was because you are fighter. You fight. I have never seen anyone recover from this,” he gestured to Napoleon’s middle, “that quick. I admire you.”

Napoleon’s eyes were filled with tears and he wiped them away with the back of his hand.

“But I’m… it’s not nice, I look terrible,” he pressed out. He was about to continue, when Illya sat down at the edge of the bed heavily and took Napoleon’s face between his big hands.

Before he knew it, Illya’s lips were on his own. Napoleon let out an embarrassing noise. Illya’s lips were warm, moving against his own; his hands were threading into Napoleon’s hair, keeping him in place and the American was not complaining even one bit. He was pushing himself off of the bed and in the Illya’s direction to be closer, _closer_ to him.

When they broke apart, Illya did not let go; his face was still so close to Napoleon’s that he felt his breath on his skin.

“Just because of injuries you don’t look terrible,” Illya mumbled.

“But I’ll have scars –”

“Yes, scars, but they don’t make you less pretty, Napoleon,” Illya said and before Napoleon had the chance to say anything else, Illya was kissing him again. With another needy sound, Napoleon opened his lips and Illya promptly took the invitation.

The kiss was so overwhelming that Napoleon actually forgot to breathe, panting heavily when Illya pulled back.

“You stupid Cowboy,” Illya said, a small smile on his face. “How can you not know how stunning you are?”

Napoleon just shook his head and stared at Illya.

He had really landed the jackpot with that man. Before even he himself was really aware of it, he shifted. It was more of an instinct than anything else, and it still hurt badly, but as soon as he curled up on Illya’s thighs and leaned his head against his belly, closing his eyes, he felt happiness coursing through him.

Illya’s hands were gentle as always.

“You are softie, Cowboy,” Illya said above him. “Wait until I tell Chop-Shop Girl, what a sap you are.”

Napoleon lifted his head and looked at Illya.

“I mean it,” the Russian confirmed. But he was right and Napoleon just laid back down and shifted around, so he was laying sideways across Illya’s thighs. His hands were carding through the fur at Napoleon’s sides and it was absolutely divine.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Illya spoke up again.

“You know, we can cuddle when you’re human too, right?”

Napoleon had not even thought about that, but now that Illya was saying it, it seemed so simple, and so tempting.

Immediately, he shifted back. The pain that coursed through him at that, was immediately made up for when he noticed that he was sitting on Illya’s lap and the Russian’s face was inches away. One of Illya’s hands was slung around his back and the other lay on top of Napoleon’s thigh.

Gently, he pressed a kiss to Illya’s jaw before wrapping both his arms around his neck; the cast only slightly bothered him, because everything else about the moment was so perfect. He pressed his face into the side of Illya’s neck, inhaling his scent.

“Unbelievable,” Illya muttered and Napoleon smiled into his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to write more later so...... But yAY these bitches are finally getting their shit together


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!! This is the second chapter today. I've written 5000 words today (and I was meeting friends, going shopping, rode the bus for 90 minutes, took a long shower, fucked around on tumblr, packed my suitcase... yea) so that's the most I've ever written in a day. Proud of myself. Sorry for rambling! Hope you enjoy the chapter!

Illya had acted on impulse. There was a blank space in his rational thinking and then he was kissing Napoleon.

And what a kiss. Napoleon had been eager, so eager and all the doubts left in Illya’s mind were gone. The way Napoleon held on to him, the way he kissed him back, it was all too clear that Napoleon wanted this.

But the man had doubts himself, it seemed, and it plagued Illya to know this. The way Napoleon had looked at him, like deer in the headlights, because Illya had seen his stitches, it made the Russian shiver. Napoleon, the man who once had the highest opinion of himself, now thought he was disfigured and ugly – his own words – because he carried away scars he gained, doing his job. He did not see the beauty of them, for some reason and Illya added this to the list of things he would do to make Napoleon happy; he was going to tell him how the scars were nothing to be ashamed of, how they were part of his story and how they were a clear sign of his strength.

But for now, Napoleon seemed content to be held.

He was sitting on Illya’s lap; the latter was sure, that a man of Napoleon’s size had difficulties finding many of these opportunities. So, he would indulge Napoleon. He began to move his hand up and down the American’s back and Napoleon only seemed to press closer to him at that. He began kissing Illya’s neck gently, but it was enough to give him goose bumps. It had been a long time since Illya had anything like this and for the first time it was with a person he was actually invested in. He swallowed a moan that started deep in his throat, because Napoleon was already too sure of his abilities. He did not need to be further encouraged. Illya’s hands went to Napoleon’s hips while the latter slowly let go off his neck and cupped his cheek.

Napoleon was beautiful. He had not styled his hair for weeks and even though he combed it back every day, it was curling around his face. His smile was sharp enough to cut with and his eyes hard as steel and soft with affection at the same time. It was a breath taking sight and indeed Napoleon did take Illya’s breath when he leaned forward and captured his lips again.

Illya could not help but smile into the kiss. For weeks he had yearned to do this; at first out of pure attraction and a desire to assert his dominance, to show Napoleon who pulled the reins in their team. Then it had been to ascertain his feelings, out of an instinct he needed to follow and lastly, because he was in love and Napoleon seemed to feel the same way. Because he needed to prove to Napoleon that scars and marks did not make him any less desirable, that Illya was just as invested in him as if his skin were as smooth and refined as the purest marble statue.

Napoleon seemed ridiculously on-board with Illya’s plan. For over a week now, Illya had been aware that Napoleon was absolutely touch-starved, or that he just was a person who needed an insane amount of interpersonal contact. Either way, Illya was glad this was not only limited to hand holding any more.

Illya absolutely loved holding Napoleon, be it in his fox form or his human form and could not be happier that Napoleon appeared to return this sentiment so wholeheartedly, but eventually, he pulled back. The kiss was getting heated and he was absolutely certain that Napoleon was under strict orders not to put too much of a strain onto himself.

“You insatiable Cowboy,” Illya laughed out breathily.

Napoleon’s grin became impossibly broader. Even before he said anything, Illya knew it was going to be bad; the glint in Napoleon’s eyes gave him away.

“You know I can ride you like one too.”

Illya rolled his eyes and groaned.

“I can’t believe you.” But Napoleon only nodded eagerly in response and shifted back to his fox form to avoid further conversation. The man was impossible.

Two days later, Napoleon had a date set to get his stitches out and be released from the U.N.C.L.E. HQ hospital. It was a hectic day, because Napoleon insisted he needed an apartment, which led to Illya panicking, because he was still living in a hotel and about to be sent on a mission with only a few days left.

But somehow they got through everything and when Illya left that night, Napoleon had been successfully calmed down with cuddles and kisses. That really did wonders.

Illya was not particular about where he lived. U.N.C.L.E. was giving him a generous salary and Illya did not suppose he would have much time off work to actually spend in his home.

The flat he ended up renting was small but clean and affordable. Illya did not have many personal belongings. He had moved into KGB training facilities right after leaving his mother’s house and only rented flats very short-term.

As Napoleon got better, it took more and more effort each day to keep him from exercising. Illya understood his reasoning and that he wanted to get fit again, but there had to be limits and apparently Napoleon was abysmal at enforcing them on himself. So, the task fell to Illya and it was not easy by any means, because Napoleon was convincing.

As if his pleading eyes, both in his fox form and his human form, were not enough, Napoleon now dared to go further, begging Illya to let him do sit-ups of all things before languidly and sweetly kissing him senseless. If there was one thing Napoleon was good at, it was convincing Illya.

But there was something Illya was just as good at as well; being stubborn. So they went on bickering and making out in their own little way. It truly was amazing.

Napoleon got released from the HQ hospital three weeks after Illya had carried him out of Rudy’s torture chamber. The stitches in his chest were taken out, the scars tender and pink but healed nicely.

The last stitches in his stomach would come out in another two weeks’ time.

Napoleon was coming home with Illya; a temporary arrangement until Napoleon found a place of his own. But for now, it was heaven. After getting there, Napoleon promptly fell onto the bed, shifted into his fox form and fell asleep. Illya had noticed that he preferred to sleep rolled up into his own fur and he did not question it, but he was sure there was a good reason for it. Most Shifters still preferred to sleep in their human form, as Illya did.

He decided to make some dinner as it was already around 5 PM and Napoleon did not look like he would wake up anytime soon.

Illya was not a good cook. He had only ever needed to feed himself on missions and in the best case, he bought every meal at a restaurant or had take-away, in the worst case, he had rations from the KGB. Bitter tasting, but life-giving.

The only time he had made an effort at learning how to cook had been when he was a little boy. He only had a vague memory of it, but his father had still been there at that point and his mother was making borscht. Illya had never particularly liked beet root growing up, but now he did not mind the earthy taste; it reminded him of home, even though he was in London, sharing his apartment and his life with an ex-CIA agent.

He was really going by feeling with his cooking, and that feeling admittedly was not very good, but it did smell acceptable and Illya was absolutely fine with that.

After half an hour, Illya heard the clacking of claws at his floor. So Napoleon was awake. He did not turn around, only heard the shuffle of clothes and then a warm body pressed up behind him, Napoleon’s arms, one of them still in a cast, sneaking around his waist.

Looking down, Illya noticed that Napoleon was barefoot, standing on his tip-toes, because Illya was still a few inches taller than him. A soft kiss was pressed against Illya’s jaw and he could quite literally feel his heart beginning to melt. He turned his head and immediately, Napoleon let go off his waist and pulled him down into a proper kiss.

Illya did not even spare a thought to the unwatched pot on the stove, as he turned away to retaliate and pull Napoleon close to him, so close.

This was not the Russian way, Illya thought to himself and in the same moment he knew that if the Russian way did not have any room for Napoleon, then it was not worth living like it.

The latter was not a fox for nothing; when they broke apart, he was standing with his back turned to the stove and nudged gently at Illya’s shoulder.

“Go and set the table. I’ll finish up. This needs some attention. Then he turned around and left Illya standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring at his back.

For a solid ten seconds, he did not move; merely looked at Napoleon in disbelief, but then he huffed out a resigned breath and got to setting the table.

It was good to see Napoleon getting back on his feet like this; Illya would not have it any other way. After all, they would be working together and if they ever got into any kind of danger, Illya would be able to protect Napoleon. He knew he was going to at any cost, because Napoleon was worth everything to him.

Illya mentally slapped himself for thinking that way, because the fact was that they still only knew each other for less than two months, but the was Illya felt about Napoleon could not be just a fleeting feeling. If Illya believed in that sort of thing, he would call it destiny, or perhaps the finding of a soulmate.

But as it was, Illya only had a very sassy Shifter temporarily living in his flat, cooking his meals with one arm and kissing him senseless every now and then. He could be doing so much worse.

Napoleon came over to the kitchen table, carrying the pot with one hand and heavily setting it down, before he sat down across from Illya in the other chair.

“You could have asked, I would have carried pot,” Illya said.

Napoleon looked him straight in the eyes and answered with the most earnest expression.

“I could do it.”

Illya rolled his eyes. How could one person be that intelligent and absolutely witless at the same time?

“But you did not have to,” he said. “That is point. You feel like you need to prove something, but you don’t. Is okay to need help. Or not. Is also okay to want help, or accept help. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

Napoleon looked away; Illya watched him closely. His face was giving away his emotions. Affection, understanding, a smile. Relief?

“Thank you,” Napoleon eventually said and promptly took a portion of the borscht.

Following his example, so did Illya. They ate in silence, but every so often their eyes met across the table and one of them cracked a smile. They were like shy teenagers, dancing around each other and yet wanting nothing than to be impossibly close to one another. After they had finished, there was a small left-over portion, so Illya stuck the whole pot into the refrigerator. It would make a nice lunch for him.

He also did the dishes, because even Napoleon had to admit that doing the dishes with one arm in a cast was not the most clever idea.

“I’ll be waiting in the bedroom,” he had said, wiggling his eyebrows obscenely. It was a joke of course, because even though Napoleon knew he was not allowed strenuous activity, he knew even better how seriously Illya was taking his limits.

When the kitchen was clean and finished with, Illya made his way to the bedroom. Napoleon was indeed waiting for him there; he had his hands behind his back and Illya was not sure what he should be expecting, exactly.

“I’ve been wanting to give you this for weeks now, but I forgot,” Napoleon started. He was looking at Illya with a gentle smile, not the sharp, cutting one he was sporting when he was teasing Illya. This smile was kind and it looked stunning.

“Well, at first I forgot… I don’t really remember a lot about the first days, and then when I remembered, I found out they put my stuff into a locker at HQ until I was released. So there was no way I could get to it; I would’ve given it to you sooner, otherwise.”

Illya looked at him expectantly.

“Can you close your eyes?” Napoleon asked.

Illya complied.

He heard Napoleon’s quiet steps approaching, then his right hand was gently being picked up. Napoleon was fastening a watch to his unbandaged wrist. The leather was soft, worn; Illya could tell even with his eyes closed. It felt almost like his father’s watch.

Napoleon pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“You can open them again.”

Illya felt his jaw drop when he looked at his wrist. He was quiet, because he did not know what to say. There was no way this was not a dream; snugly around his wrist, held in place by the same old leather band, was his father’s old watch. The exact one, Illya could tell at a mere glance.

“How?” he breathed out, eyes shifting from the watch to Napoleon’s face.

“There was a guard at the races that day,” the American explained. “He looked familiar. I was nicking things here and there… that’s how I got my invitation. I stole the watch without him even noticing.”

Napoleon did not have a lot of time to brace himself before Illya stepped up to him and closed his arms around him.

“Oh, Cowboy,” Illya whispered. _I love you,_ it echoed in the back of his mind, but it was not something Illya easily felt or verbally expressed, for that matter, so it remained just like that: An echo in his mind.

As if he knew what Illya was thinking, Napoleon returned the hug just as tightly; for a moment Illya had forgotten about his injuries.

Then, he stepped back.

“Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

Napoleon laughed. “You couldn’t, you big cuddly bear.”

He let himself fall onto the bed backwards and extended his arms.

“Come on! You know you want to cuddle me. I brought you your father’s watch.”

It was a cheap tactic, but to Illya’s own surprise it worked. He got on the bed next to Napoleon and as he cuddled into Illya’s broad frame, the latter pressed a light kiss to Napoleon’s temple.

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo. One more plot chapter after this one. And then some smut and we're done!!!!! Can you believe?


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday's chapter. A bit late, and today's will be up tomorrow at the very least.  
> Enjoy :)

Illya’s arms were supposed to be around Napoleon, he was sure of that. It felt like fate, lying here, cuddled up to the man.

The look in the Russian’s eyes when Napoleon had returned his father’s watch had been one of utter fascination, affection, thankfulness. Love? Napoleon doubted it; most likely it was just what he was projecting onto him. He wanted there to be love. But Napoleon forced himself to be rational about it; they had only known each other for a few weeks. It could not be real love. And yet, Napoleon could not shake the feeling.

There were a lot of things he was uncertain about now. His future was still not securely laid out with U.N.C.L.E., his injuries might always turn out worse than anticipated, impacting him for the rest of his life, but there was one thing Napoleon was absolutely sure about and it was that he wanted Illya to share his life.

There was something so calming about lying in bed, having Illya’s arms wrapped around him. It felt like he was in the most secure place in the world, and maybe he really was. Illya was absolutely terrifying when he wanted to be. Just thinking back on their second meeting, Napoleon recalled the bared teeth as Illya’s bear form had snarled at him before vanishing in the woods of the park. How far they had come since then.

And how far they would still have to go. Napoleon was scared of what the future had in store for him, but he could say with absolute certainty that he would do everything in his power to make sure he succeeded again. At life… and hopefully at love.

Napoleon shifted underneath the blankets and felt Illya’s arms tightening around him.

As soon as the cast on Illya’s finger came off and he was officially declared recovered from all his injuries, Waverly sent him off on a mission. The two of them barely had a day together, before Illya had to catch a flight to Japan, but Illya managed to take Napoleon on a date nonetheless. It was a lunch date, not especially romantic by itself. But the way Illya looked at Napoleon like he was the best thing he had ever seen, as if he was taking in the sight of him like a prisoner on death row devoured his final meal, it gave Napoleon hope. The way Illya kissed him goodbye, gave him something to remember while Illya would be away. And just like that, Napoleon was left alone in a flat that was not his, except by association, so he made it his.

He still had bi-weekly check-ups at U.N.C.L.E.’s HQ, but they were usually over quite quickly, and Napoleon discovered the art of rule-bending for himself all over again. As long as the doctors did not know, they would not care if Napoleon went on a run first thing in the morning. So it became his routine to go jogging between five and five thirty each morning, come home, take a shower and subsequently go to bed again until hunger woke him up. He had breakfast and went for another walk to buy a newspaper and check if Illya had encountered any news-worthy problems in his mission. The rest of the day, he spent either cooking, trying to work out more with a broken arm, worrying about his future or sometimes all of those together. It was not an especially eventful life, he was leading but it was a peaceful one and Napoleon for once actually had to admit that it was likely helping him get better.

The last visit to HQ before his last stitches were going to be taken out, was a bit more interesting. In the middle of his check-up, just when Doctor James was telling him, that his progress seemed to be really good for somebody with his initial injuries, Waverly stepped into the room. Napoleon had to hold back from covering up his upper body; he knew it was not nice to look at, but Waverly did not seem to mind at all. He was there for business. When James had left Napoleon with a slip of paper that fixed his next and likely final appointment, Waverly stepped forward.

Napoleon hastily pulled his shirt on, then a jumper on top. He was forgoing formal clothes as of late, since there was no use in dressing up if he was not working a job or trying to impress somebody. And of course he wanted to look good nonetheless, but he knew he was good looking even in regular clothes.

“Solo,” Waverly said in greeting.

“Waverly,” Napoleon replied and nodded with a smile. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

“I have several things to talk to you about. Let’s take this to the office.” It was a command. Napoleon followed Waverly through the hallways and out of the hospital building, into another, similarly constructed one. Two flights of stairs up and the second door to the left, Waverly opened the door and extended a hand.

“After you,” he motioned for Napoleon to step inside.

“Take a seat,” Waverly offered when he sat down behind the desk himself.

“Thank you.” Napoleon sat down in one of the chairs facing Waverly.

“So, you’ve recovered well, I hear,” Waverly started. “Stitches out in two days and the cast comes off a week later?”

Napoleon nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

“You’ve had your time to think now, and I assume you have come to a conclusion as to whether you’d like to work for U.N.C.L.E. after all this. I gather you know your alternative options.”

Napoleon nodded again.

“I’d like to take the offer. I know I’ll have to work hard to get back into shape, but I’ll do that. I won’t disappoint you.”

“I’m sure you won’t, Solo,” Waverly said. “After all, you’re an excellent agent. You will be given ten weeks of leave to get into shape as you see fit and then the usual entrance exam.”

“Thank you.” Napoleon repeated.

“Now, that is done, on to the next point. Originally I had planned to hire both you and Kuryakin, sort of as a team package, but I have done my research since then and I have been thoroughly convinced that you are not only great together, but also brilliant spies on your own. That is why I’ve already given Kuryakin a job. The thing is – and I’m sorry if it seems like I’m invading your private life – that the relationship between the two of you can in no way interfere with your work.”

“Of course. I only speak for myself, but if I know anybody who can control themselves, it’s Illya. That won’t be a problem.”

Napoleon knew he would never risk his career over his personal life, and neither would Illya.

“Good. I’ll take your word for that. Another thing concerns your Shifting. We have designed a special test to pass in order to evaluate your skills in that field, but you will take that at the same time as your physical. And finally, I have a request from Agent Teller, that you meet her in two hours down at the HQ airfield. She said to tell you to walk there.”

Napoleon smiled at Waverly’s words.

“I will, thank you, Sir.” With these words, he got up and left the office. He went to the cafeteria, because with only two hours before he was supposed to be back here, Napoleon did not have enough time to go anywhere else.

With half an hour to spare, Napoleon got up and started making his way to the U.N.C.L.E. airfield, that lay about half a mile from the office buildings, gyms and the hospital, among others, that made up the HQ.

When Napoleon arrived, Gaby’s plane had already landed and he saw her on the top step of the plane. The moment she saw him, Gaby discarded her baggage on the top steps. And came racing down towards him.

Napoleon extended his arms, but Gaby did not come crashing into him, apparently remembering his injuries.

“You’re okay?” she asked, as she closed her arms around Napoleon’s neck, pulling him down into a hug.

“Yeah. I started walking around the time you left and now… Yeah I’m good.”

Gaby laughed in relief.

“I was so worried, I’m still blaming myself. I could never have forgiven, if you didn’t get well. Oh, I’m so glad.” Her grip around him tightened.

“And I’m glad you’re back. How was the mission?”

Slowly she let go, but remained standing close, Napoleon’s own arms rested on her hips.

She cocked her head to grin up at him.

“It was good. Successful. But it wasn’t as fun as working with you and Illya.”

Napoleon grinned back down at her. He was so glad to have her in his life.

“Speaking of Illya. Where’s he? I would have thought the two of you would refuse to go anywhere separately by now.”

Napoleon was not sure how Gaby knew this, but she was scarily right.

“He’s on a mission. Bit more than a week now,” Napoleon replied.

“Oh.” Gaby looked vaguely disappointed. “But how’s it going between the two of you.”

The smile that spread on Napoleon’s face at that could have served as an answer on its own, but he felt like he should say something.

“Yeah, it’s good, really good.”

Gaby’s mission partner brought over her luggage. She stepped away for a second to hug him goodbye, before she turned back to Napoleon and handed him her purse.

“You shouldn’t carry heavy, but at least carry this,” she said and walked off in the direction of the HQ.

“It’s a heavy responsibility,” Napoleon objected and fell into step next to her.

“Of course it is,” Gaby said, sarcasm thick on her voice. They both laughed.

“You look good, Napoleon,” she remarked after a moment, completely serious again.

“I am a taken man, Miss Teller. You have no chance with me.” Napoleon laughed.

“Oh, so that’s how it is. You figured that out quite fast,” Gaby said. She looked over at him and when she noticed his confused expression, she raised an eyebrow and continued. “What? I thought it would take you longer to figure yourselves out. It was kinda obvious from the beginning.”

Napoleon shrugged.

“I mean, yeah. I wanted him from the beginning…” Gaby rolled her eyes.

“Too much info, Solo!”

“It was you who asked,” he laughed. “That’s probably what you meant, too. The obvious thing. But I wasn’t in love with him from the start.”

“Oh my god, Napoleon, you’re really in love.” Gaby sounded surprised, but when Napoleon looked at her, she was smiling.

“Yeah.” He admitted softly.

“I’m glad. I really hope, everything works out for you.”

Gaby had two weeks off work, to finish some paperwork and relax before the next mission. She spent a lot of time with Napoleon and was also the first one to hug him with all the considerable strength in her body, when his cast was removed and he was officially declared recovered from all his injuries.

The next day, Napoleon started working out in the gym at U.N.C.L.E.’s HQ, and according to Doctor James, who was still overseeing Napoleon’s health, and thus his training, he was making great progress. Thus, Napoleon exercised the time way until he was informed that Illya would return the following day.

He called Gaby, immediately.

“Will you come with me?”

“Huh?” It came from the other end of the line.

“Illya’s gonna be back tomorrow, will you come with me to HQ?”

Gaby caught up immediately.

“Of course!”

And so, she found herself next to an extremely excited Napoleon on the same airstrip she had arrived at days earlier.

“Calm down, Napoleon.”

Napoleon was feeling bad about annoying her, but he could not stop pacing, jumping from one foot to the other, always moving.

“Sorry,” he mumbled and shoved his hands into the pockets of the jacket he was wearing.

The plane came to a halt a couple hundred feet from where they were standing and Napoleon started running the moment the door opened.

Illya stepped outside a moment later and similarly to Gaby he let go off all his luggage and came down the steps, taking two at a time until he was standing in front of Napoleon.

“Cowboy,” he breathed out and not a second later, their lips met.

It was glorious; napoleon had known that he missed Illya, but he had not been aware of quite how much he did.

“I missed you,” Napoleon said between kisses.

“Did you really drag me here to make me watch the two of you making out?” Gaby laughed.

Illya immediately pulled back. After looking endearingly embarrassed for a moment, his expression shifted to absolute joy.

“Chop-shop girl!” he said and turned away from Napoleon to wrap her in his arms.

As Napoleon’s fingers intertwined with Illya’s on the way back to HQ, he listened to Gaby and Illya bickering over their respective most recent mission and thought to himself, that his future started to look less bleak by the second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. One chapter left. For those of you, who are not comfortable with sexual content, the last chapter isn't for you.  
> For those of you, who are, get ready for smut, fluff and just a bit more shifting as a parting gift from me <3


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi babes. I hope this doesn't disappoint.

Illya looked out the window. It was snowing, thick flakes were falling from the sky and even though he was in London, far away from Mother Russia, he felt at home. The snow only added to the comfort Illya already associated with their apartment anyway.

Napoleon was still at U.N.C.L.E. HQ wrapping up some paperwork after his most recent mission, but he was about to come back any minute now. As soon as Napoleon was officially cleared to start training again, there had been nothing Illya could possibly do to keep him from giving his all to get back into shape. And indeed Napoleon was so dedicated, that after less than two months, about as long as he had been out, he was sent on his first mission, which he finished admirably. By the time he came home, Illya and Gaby had been off on another mission and so it went on and on.

Since the vast majority of the time, either of them was on a mission without the other, or they were away on missions together, the apartment was big enough for their needs and Napoleon had never bothered to look for a place of his own. They had a week of holidays now, just before Christmas and would return to work on the 23rd.

Illya could not wait for Napoleon to get home. He missed him dearly and had not seen him for several weeks due to overlapping missions. As soon as he heard the key turn in the lock, Illya was on his feet, making his way to the door.

Napoleon stepped inside and Illya was falling in love all over; it was beyond him how this man could be so good looking. Napoleon toed off his expensive shoes carelessly and without taking off his coat, he ran over to greet Illya, coming to a halt only inches before him. He took Illya’s face between his hands and kissed him.

“And hello to you too, Cowboy,” Illya laughed out when they broke apart. His jumper was wet in the front, because of the melting snow on Napoleon’s coat. Some single snowflakes were caught in Napoleon’s hair, melting away just as the ones on his coat and Illya felt himself melting just as they were, at the sight of Napoleon beaming at him.

“I missed you,” Napoleon said and finally took off the coat.

“The mission was dreadful. I mean, it went over alright; we got the codes to the safe in less than a day, but the guards were good. You know how I am with guards… I don’t really mind, but they really knew their job and it took so much useless time getting past them.” Napoleon groaned and rolled back his eyes, before he let himself fall forward into Illya’s arms.

“Stand by yourself, Napoleon. I am boyfriend, not furniture.”

Napoleon obeyed immediately, but did not step back; instead, he hugged Illya close and lifted him up a few inches.

“Yes, I know you’re strong. You don’t have to prove anything.” Illya pretended to be annoyed, but he was not particularly good at it and really, he was proud of Napoleon because he had gotten back on his feet so quickly after he had been wounded that badly. And he knew, Napoleon was proud of himself as well.

“That doesn’t stop me, Peril,” Napoleon said when he put Illya back down.

Illya had nothing to say about that; it was only true. And then he had nothing to say, because suddenly, Napoleon’s lips were back on his own and he was too busy holding on to the American’s hips for dear life while trying to return the kiss even half as enthusiastically. Napoleon was pushing him back towards the bedroom door and when Illya bumped against it, he pulled back.

“God, Illya.” His name sounded delicious, rolling off Napoleon’s tongue. “I’ve waited so long.”

Illya let out a sound in agreement, the exact moment, Napoleon leaned in again and pushed Illya firmly against the door. One of his hands firmly kept Illya in place, positioned at his chest, the other loosened Illya’s belt buckle and pulled the shirt from Illya’s trousers.

Napoleon’s hand was still cold and Illya shivered when the American started caressing the skin just above the hem of his trousers. Simultaneously, Napoleon kissed Illya’s neck and as simple as that, the sensations became too much for Illya. He let out a moan and felt Napoleon’s kisses become impossibly more eager, his fingers slowly made their way into Illya’s trousers. Eventually, when Napoleon had reduced him to a moaning mess by little more than kissing him, he let go off Illya’s chest and undid his fly a moment later.

Illya’s dick was straining against his underwear and he had to bite the inside of his cheek so he would not embarrass himself by coming untouched, just from the effect Napoleon had on him.

The latter did not even bother pulling down Illya’s trousers before he reached for Illya’s dick, and started stroking it as much as possible in the tight confines of the decidedly too many layers of clothing Illya was still wearing. Illya eventually pushed down the trousers himself and enjoyed the relative space Napoleon now had for his movements.

When Napoleon went down to his knees, Illya laughed out, a choked sound, mixed with half a moan.

“You can’t even wait to go into bedroom?” he asked. The way Napoleon looked up at him, eyes dark with desire, lips spit-slick, Illya did not even need a verbal reply.

“I told you I’ve waited for too long. I want you now. And later. And preferably forever.”

“You overestimate my stamina,” Illya said.

“You underestimate my skill,” Napoleon shot back. Then he pulled the briefs down and a filthy grin spread across his face at the sight of Illya’s dick.

Napoleon looked back up at him as if to ask for consent and the second Illya nodded enthusiastically, Napoleon’s lips closed around the tip of his dick.

A swirl of his tongue, before Napoleon took him in deeper, deeper and continued to work the base with one hand. Illya lost himself in sensation, moans left his lips unstopped, his head was thrown back against the bedroom door and his hands found their way into Napoleon’s hair. The man was truly convinced of himself and Illya should not be surprised, but he was also completely right to be, because Napoleon was amazing.

Illya did not know why he had even doubted Napoleon when he had bragged about his skill, because he did this often, like the time he had told Illya “I can officially lift you now,” after coming back from the gym and then promptly proceeding to do so before Illya even had a chance to really laugh at him.

Napoleon, contrary to all expectations, was a man of his word, no matter how high the stakes were. And he was excellent at seemingly everything.

Illya clenched his teeth; every muscle in his body was tensely strung, Napoleon was working him thoroughly and Illya could feel his orgasm approaching too fast for his taste.

Napoleon, however showed no signs of stopping, not even when Illya involuntarily thrust his hips forward and he nearly gagged.

“Sorry,” Illya panted, but Napoleon just kept going and had the nerves to moan around Illya when it happened again.

The man was the biggest tease. Illya could not be happier, and then Napoleon twisted his tongue in ways Illya could not even begin to understand in his state of mind and Illya was coming, groaning out from deep within. Napoleon’s lips remained wrapped around him and the American’s eyes were falling shut; the look he shot Illya through half-lidded eyes was so full of lust that Illya had no doubts that Napoleon had been entirely right about having him again later.

When Napoleon got back to his feet, and hastily wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand, Illya just looked at him, stunned.

“God, you’re amazing,” he finally said. Napoleon grinned.

“I know.” He leaned in to kiss Illya again; he could taste himself in the kiss, it was languid and sweet, but Napoleon already a step ahead, as always. He pulled Illya’s sweater over his head, breaking the kiss for a second, then went right back to devouring him while he unbuttoned the shirt Illya was still wearing.

In return, Illya’s trembling fingers undid Napoleon’s tie and started to unbutton his shirt as well. Suddenly, Napoleon froze.

“Are you alright?” Illya asked, worried. Napoleon closed his eyes and visibly swallowed. He stepped away from Illya and opened the door to walk past him into the bedroom. Illya stepped out of the trousers, that were still lying around his ankles and caught up to Napoleon, wrapping his arms around him from behind.

“Talk to me, Cowboy.” Napoleon remained quiet and in that moment, Illya knew what to say.

“I love you and nothing you could say will change that.” Napoleon turned around with wide eyes.

“Really?” Illya nodded. Napoleon hesitantly continued to unbutton his shirt. “Say it again,” he demanded.

“I love you.”

Napoleon let the shirt fall to the floor.

“I dare you to look at this,” he gestured to his upper body, “and say it again.” Napoleon’s voice was not as strong anymore. His eyes filled with fear and discomfort; he still did not understand. Illya let his eyes wander over the scars, he took in every inch of Napoleon’s bared skin and he found no flaws.

When his eyes met Napoleon’s again, he saw that it would take more than these three words to reassure Napoleon.

“I love you. You oblivious Cowboy still don’t know,” he said, stepping closer. Napoleon did not back away. Illya’s hands settled at Napoleon’s waist and pulled him flush against Illya’s chest.

“I love you for more than body. I love your mind and your soul, Napoleon. Sounds sappy, but is the truth. I love you, and you’re beautiful. How do you not know? I told you before that scars don’t make you ugly. They make you look like beautiful, strong warrior.”

“I didn’t even get them in combat,” Napoleon said, but he sounded and looked decidedly less heartbroken.

“No matter. Believe me, Cowboy. They’re sexy.” At that, Napoleon smiled up at him, feigning innocence.

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” Illya breathed, before their lips met again. The kiss turned heated quickly, even more so than before and Illya partly blamed the sizeable bulge Napoleon was sporting himself. It was his turn to take care of Napoleon now.

Illya quickly opened his trousers, pulled them down, then Napoleon’s underwear. He gently pushed Napoleon onto the bed and kissed him sweetly, before he began to trail kisses down his neck, which elicited moans from Napoleon that shot through Illya, going straight to his dick. By the time Illya reached his chest, he was already half hard again, just from the filthy sounds Napoleon was making. Illya flicked his tongue over Napoleon’s left nipple, before he gently blew on it. In response, Napoleon hissed and ground his hips upwards into Illya’s. He gently sucked on the nipple, while teasing the other one between his fingertips and indeed Napoleon seemed to love this, judging by the panted out moans.

“Stop teasing me, Peril,” he said, when Illya stopped to move on further down Napoleon’s chest. But he was feeling the urgency and could only imagine how the American would be feeling at this point.

He reached into the drawer in the nightstand and got out a bottle of lube. He had not put it there, but had discovered that Napoleon had, when he returned from a mission. It was very much appreciated now.

Illya coated his fingers and proceeded to move backwards, looking at Napoleon in front of him, all spread out.  
He looked glorious, staring back at Illya with the same expression of adoration, as he spread his legs for him, propping up his feet to give Illya better access.

Napoleon’s eyes widened when Illya rubbed a finger over the tight ring of muscle, then he visibly relaxed and Illya did not even really need to push in, because Napoleon was moving towards him, taking the finger like it was nothing. Illya curled it slightly, while he continued to thrust his finger into Napoleon at a leisurely pace. He could see by the way he pushed back into Illya’s hand that Napoleon was still eager, and the sounds he was making were telling him the same.

Then, Illya’s finger seemed to twist just right and Napoleon let out a throaty groan and tensed up.

Illya put one hand on his belly and pressed him back into the mattress.

“Relax, Cowboy.”  Napoleon immediately obeyed, the only thing, that indicated, Illya was going the right way, were Napoleon’s moans.

“Give me more, you terrible communist,” Napoleon pressed out between moans and Illya knew in that moment that it would not get any sexier than that. Nothing could be better, that Napoleon, the man he loved, spread out before him, running his mouth like he did best.

Illya laughed out incredulously and added another finger. Judging by Napoleon’s thrown back head and his bucking hips, he was doing the right thing.

“I’m gonna come just from this if you don’t hurry up, Peril,” Napoleon said and looked at him from under his lashes. Illya swallowed; then, without breaking eye-contact, he reached into the drawer again and got out a condom.

“But what if I don’t let you come?” he asked. Napoleon let out a choked noise.

“Oh God, Peril. You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Illya frowned.

“I hope not,” he replied, but they both knew he was joking.

“Don’t play dumb,” Napoleon said and opened his mouth to continue, but in that moment, Illya lined himself up and the only thing that left Napoleon’s lips when Illya pushed in, was a long-drawn “fuck.”

Then Illya felt him relax around him and he pushed in further. It was delicious.

He was tightly gripping Napoleon’s hips, holding them up to thrust into him over and over, while the latter had his fists curled into the sheets.

“Are you okay?” Illya asked.

“Yeah,” Napoleon moaned.

Illya felt him tensing up; even without the accompanying soundtrack of moans, it was clear that he was close, so close to coming and Illya, despite his own words, was not going to deny it to him. Instead, without losing pace, he wrapped one hand around Napoleon’s dick, which was met with a choked gasp.

Illya started moving his hand, twisting his wrist in just the right way and watched Napoleon’s body writhe beneath him in ecstasy.

Illya could not hold back a moan when Napoleon bucked up into his hand one last time, then spurted all over his hand, clenching around Illya, adding more friction, more pleasure, so only moments later, he was coming too, collapsing on top of Napoleon.

He pressed a soft kiss into his dark hair and sighed. Napoleon turned to look at him.

“I love you too, Illya,” he whispered. Their lips met and the sensation was familiar; Illya never wanted that to change.

When Illya came out of the shower, he expected Napoleon to be lying in bed or perhaps stand in the kitchen making dinner, but he was sitting on the tiny balcony bordering on their bedroom.

Illya only saw his silhouette and a red glint of fur. His fox form was quietly sitting there, looking at the dark winter sky. Illya shifted and slowly trotted over to him, lying down half inside the room, half outside. As soon as Napoleon noticed his presence, he shuffled closer to him, nestling himself into the soft fur at Illya’s neck. They lay there in peace; Illya’s mind wandered back to the previous year.

And as he watched the snow fall and the flakes getting caught in Napoleon’s red fur, as he watched how his nose moved when the cold crystals hit the sensitive skin there, it seemed to Illya like there was nothing more romantic than snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My. God.  
> I just arrived home from my holidays the second I finished this fanfiction. I started writing it a few days into it, 14 days ago and now I have successfully finished a bigger work than I would ever have thought possible. Thank you all so so much for reading <3  
> A special shoutout goes to PlanB who commented on every chapter, and literally everybody else who commented, because it pretty much kept me going, along with the knowledge that if I stopped writing I might not have started again.  
> So. Here we are.  
> Thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! Kudos and comments are what keeps me going, so feel free to Feed Me!


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